Carnival of Rust
by visceralfringe
Summary: Alternate Universe: Jack Frost is a world famous figure skater. With the championship title on the line, he hardly has time to sleep, let alone fall in love... namely with the one who will be his toughest critic.
1. Inspiration

Do you breathe the name of your savior in your hour of need?

And taste the blame if the flavor should remind you of greed?

Of implication, insinuation and ill will, till' you cannot lie still.

In all this turmoil, before red cape and foil come closing in for a kill.

Come feed the rain, cause I'm thirsty for your love dancing underneath the skies of lust.

Yeah, feed the rain, cause without your love my life ain't nothing but this carnival of rust.

It's all a game, avoiding failure, when true colors will bleed, all in the name of misbehavior and the things we don't need.

I lust for after no disaster can touch…

touch us anymore.

And more than ever, I hope to never fall where enough is not the same it was before.

Come feed the rain,

cause I'm thirsty for your love dancing underneath the skies of lust.

Yeah, feed the rain,

cause without your love my life ain't nothing but this carnival of rust.

Don't walk away, don't walk away, oh, when the world is burning,

Don't walk away, don't walk away, oh, when the heart is yearning.

Don't walk away, don't walk away, oh, when the world is burning,

Don't walk away, don't walk away, oh, when the heart is yearning.

**~ Poets of the Fall**


	2. Five Star Affair

Adam, absorbed in his earpiece, inserts the key card into the locking mechanism. The light flashes green and he opens the door. Adam flips the light switch inside. He extends his hand into the hotel room, signaling the young man behind him.

"Entre," he prompts sans the proper accent. Jack Frost steps gracefully around him, emerging into the room totting his luggage along. The plush carpet, granite counters, coffee and cream colored walls, stainless steel kitchen appliances, and opulent furniture await him, as does a bathtub big enough for three people, a washroom with two sinks, and a luxurious bedroom. He has seen too many of them not to know exactly what is in store.

"Hang on, Tia," Adam says into his Bluetooth. To Jack, "Freshen up, kid. I'll text you when it's time for dinner."

Jack pivots on his heel just in time to see the door close. He closes his mouth. Jack lugs his suitcase into his bedroom and hoists it onto the edge of the bed. He ghosts his fingers over the thick red comforter embroidered in gold. There are enough pillows to drown in and enough drawers to stash a lifetime of clothing. The room is stunning, silent, and spacious. It is the perfect reminder... of just how utterly lonely his life is. He shrugs his backpack strap off his shoulder and drops it on the floor. He goes to the window and pulls back the curtains. He stares out over the city, basking in the last of daylight's glow. The sun always sets earlier in the winter.

Jack hears his phone buzzing. He hurries to his backpack and rummages around until he finds it under his favorite sweatshirt. His excitement is crushed when the sender line reads Adam Russell.

_Don't forget we are eating with veterans, sponsors, and maybe some judges. Dress to impress._

Jack is seventeen. Dressing to impress is his least favorite hobby. His entire life is lavish parties where he is not allowed to eat anything, garish gatherings where Adam constantly interrupts him, and gigantic hotel rooms in which he must abide alone. The irony hangs over his head like a waiting anvil in a cartoon no one can laugh at. Adam wades through gossip and navigates unfamiliar streets for him. As the years go by, Jack thinks less and less for himself. His life is an agenda, and it is all typed in meticulous detail into Adam's Blackberry.

Life was fantastic before he was scouted. Life was full of friends and fried food and Friday night fun. He was plucked out of Juno and put into a strait jacket. Prankster to perfectionism. Party fiend to total bore. But this is his dream, right? … Right? This is a question he has tried to ignore for some time. He makes good money. He has built quite a reputation for himself. Adam is his personal representative. Pierre is his coach. Jack has learned much and come so far. He cannot quit now. The world championship is only four days away.

_Eyes on the prize, Jack. Focus._

He is glad his friends cannot see him now. They would hardly know him.

Jack kicks off his traveling sneakers as he meanders into the bathroom. He plugs up the drain and turns on the tub facet. The water heats up immediately. He undresses. Adam always says the cure for his "moods" is a good soak in the bath. Jack has yet to experience an instance where this is true.

* * *

They are right on time for their five star affair. Jack's khaki slacks and blue button-up apparently meet Adam's standards, because the man gives him no grief, not even for his puka shell necklace his friend Marina gave him before departing. He rarely takes that off. The Italian restaurant in their hotel is dimly lit and expensively decorated. It emphasizes his ice blond hair. Jack and Adam are led to a long table where several other guests are already seated. They hang back so Adam can give a disgruntled mumble. "Damn. Bad luck."

"What's wrong?" Jack asks, blue eyes concerned for Adam's sudden lack of confidence. Adam stoops down closer to his ear. Jack, to his chagrin, is not an especially tall individual.

"See that man in the tailored Armani? They call him the dark judge. His name is Pitch Black, and that guy is treacherous as hell, Jackie. A real vulture. He is known to give brutal critiques and pick at a skater's weakest points. I don't think he has ever scored anyone above a 3. Just let me do the talking tonight, alright?"

Before Jack can answer, Adam adopts a giant smile and strides towards the table. "Not like that's any different from every other night, right?" Jack mutters.

Introductions are made. They take their seats. Jack makes brief eye contact with each prestigious member of their dinner party, but only one image truly sticks with him. Pitch is ghostly pale, casting a ghoulish glow into his amber eyes. His hair, appropriately jet black, is slicked back with gel. He has a sharp, sophisticated look to him. He doesn't seem quite alive, but he moves much too fluidly, sits too straight, to be dead. To make matters worse, he has a rich accent that sounds like melting chocolate, or at least that is what Jack envisions melting chocolate to sound like… if it made a sound.

There is also a woman in red and an older couple whom Jack recognizes to be former champion partner skaters. Jack has always been a solo act. Adam often swears there is magic in his feet. Duos are pointless when none can keep pace with him, right?

Jack's eyes dart to Pitch occasionally. He sits at the head of the table. Adam sits at the other, closest to Jack. The couple sit on one side. Jack is next to the woman in red who tells him he looks handsome and gives him warm smirks every once in awhile. She is older than Adam is, but her face retains its youthful allure. Her hair falls over her shoulder in long red waves. Jack immediately likes her. She reminds him of his mother.

She was presented as Cynthia Black. Jack assumes Pitch is her husband until their status as brother and sister is revealed. By the snarky way they nag at one another, he suspects their relationship is a tumultuous one. Pitch could be in his twenties, but his lofty vocabulary and classy mannerisms paint him as older than that. He is strange. Jack does not know why, but the man's image lingers and looms in the darkest corners of his mind even when he is not looking at him. The buzz of political chatter as they look over the menus is somehow buffered by his presence. It has been awhile since Jack has found anyone so simultaneously interesting and intimidating.

The waitress makes her appearance, reciting specials and wine brands. They order. Adam orders for him, which is common place. Jack stares at his plate of leafy greens while the others dine on bread and oil. Cynthia asks him if he would like any several times. Jack can only smile and shake his head. _A skater's figure is crucial, kiddo. Those uniforms won't look killer on just anyone_ – Adam always says.

"So, Jack Frost," Pitch says without looking up from his meal, punctuating the prompt with an especially venomous snap of the tongue. It's an electric jolt to Jack's system. "Is that your real name? Or merely part of your flare?"

Jack doesn't bother opening his mouth. Adam is ready with a reply, "You know, I asked him the exact same question when we met. No gimmicks though. This guy is the real thing, name and all."

"Is that so?" Pitch drones.

"I swear on his birth certificate," Adam laughs after dabbing at his lips with his napkin. Jack pushes a cucumber around his plate.

"And how is it you came to be a skater, Jack?" Pitch inquires, sounding genuinely disinterested.

"Well, to be honest, we're pretty sure the boy was born with skates on," Adam chimes in.

"I assume you mean he's a "natural talent". That is a pitfall for many an aspiring champion. Nothing comes without pain and effort. Moreover, from what little I have seen of him, I can tell you that is not the case."

If Jack felt small before, he has just been reduced to the size of a teacup.

Adam takes a sip from his white wine. "If I may, the competition he has been up against has been pretty weak. He saved his A game for the big leagues. Isn't that right, sport?" He winks at Jack who manages a fake smile back.

"hm. Well, there is no room for holding back here, young man. I suggest you shelve your triple axels in the competition. They're weak at best. Your turns are sloppy as well." Jack swallows thickly, finding himself unable to look up from his house salad. His cheeks are hot with shame.

Adam laughs it off. "You must have watched last year's tapes. He's been practicing harder than ever, smoothing out all the rough edges. We won't be holding back this time."

The table is silent as Pitch gracefully sets his silverware aside and folds his hands over his plate, propping his elbows on the table's edge. "I believe I was addressing the boy," he says. "In fact, I've been addressing the boy for some time now." A chill falls over them all.

Adam assumes an undeterred grin. "As his personal rep, I usually take the questions, sir. Takes the pressure off of him."

Pitch's eyes are fixed on Adam's face, his harrowing expression locked in place just as solidly. "Best ease up on that, lest he forget how to talk altogether."

Adam's smile wanes. He nods to Mr. Black with an uncharacteristically tight lipped smirk.

Cynthia takes the reins of conversation from then on. Jack is somewhat mortified when he is actually allowed to speak, his tongue fumbling for the right words. Pitch makes him nervous, more than any other person on the planet. Jack has mixed feelings about the man not talking directly to him again.

Their time together is coming to a close. As the waitress is collecting the plates, Jack reaches for the last complementary cherry cordial in the bowl by the candelabra.

"Oh, you don't want that," Adam says, whisking the plate away and handing it to the waitress. "I'm pretty sure it fell on the floor."

* * *

They say their goodbyes as the doormen help Cynthia and the rest with their coats and shawls.

"Oh. And Jack," Pitch says, turning towards him. Jack looks up into his face from a business distance, still rather abashed from dinner. "It is in your best interests to take my advice." Fronting a polite smile, "I fear your guidance may not be adequate." He nods to them both and turns, meeting Cynthia at the glass doors revealing a waiting limousine on the curb.

The elevator ride is painfully silent. Jack folds his arms tightly, braced against a verbal assault that never comes. They split off at the fork in the hallway, each headed towards their rooms for the night. Jack has practice with Pierre in the morning. Jack uses his card key to open his door. He quickly shuts it behind him. Even as his eyes brim with tears, he reminds himself that he needs thicker skin. He has no one but himself to cushion the blow. Still, the hours of practice and the blood and sweat and strife he has put into mastering his form makes it hard for Pitch's cuts not to sting. He knows his triple axels are not up to par. But are his turns really sloppy too?

Determined not to cry, Jack flops down in bed and hugs one of the many pillows as close as he can. He is just drifting off when he hears a knock at the door. Jack frowns. He crosses through the bedroom, the kitchen, and the sitting area. He opens the door, met with nothing but an empty hallway. He peers outside and looks left, then right to no avail. By chance, his eyes dart downward. He discovers a small ivory box on the floor, trussed up with a red satin bow. Jack curiously takes the package inside. He climbs back onto his bed. He unties the bow, uncovering a card underneath. He opens and reads it.

**I assure you, these have never met the floor.**

Jack searches for a signature, but finds none. He opens the box. Inside, he finds six perfectly arranged cherry cordials in their own individual wrapping cups. A grin explodes onto his face. He immediately goes for his phone, punching in a text to Adam –

_Thanks for the gift. :)_

Jack pops one into his mouth, the chocolate immediately melting over his tongue. It has to be the best thing he has ever tasted. Adam's usual instant response alert buzzes onto the screen. Jack opens the text. His brows knit together as he reads it.

_What gift?_


	3. Undefeated

That night, Jack is disturbed by a dream… narrated primarily by a voice that sounds like melting chocolate.

He hovers, suspended in utter darkness. _"And just how did __**you**__ become a figure skater?" _He can feel hands, many strong black hands snaking over his ankles, his wrists, his arms, his chest… his thighs… _"Dress to impress? I'm hardly amazed." _His skin is suddenly bare beneath their fingers. _"Better."_ Jack thrashes. They hold him fast. Eyes open, eyes closed – there is no difference.

"_I assume you mean natural talent. From what I have seen, that is not the case." _A hand slides over his mouth, clamping down. Jack screams mutely. _"Best ease up on that, lest he forget how to talk."_ They all reel him backwards in one great yank. Something stops his body – something of substance. _"Oh, and Jack…"_ Something lurks behind him, something solid, something that feels alarmingly like another body. He would run, but those hands won't let him go. A new hand eases around the front of his throat. The being shifts. A mouth is grinning against his ear. _" Jack… Jack…"_

He sits up with a start, shivering in a cold sweat as the last of his name echoes in the air. His chest heaves as his frightened eyes dart around the room. Jack scrambles aside to turn on the bedside lamp. He lifts up the sheets, just to check for hands… and is half mortified when he realizes that other parts of his body have reacted… differently. Jack swiftly drops the covers and seizes the comforter around his calves. He does a double-take at the half empty box of cherry cordials under the lamp. His expression fizzles out. He sighs dramatically and flops back into the pillows.

Running a hand through his hair, "No more chocolate before bed. Never again."

Nothing but restless sleep awaits him from then on. Jack finally gives up and takes his frustrations, his ipod, and his skates to the indoor ice rink.

* * *

Jack drops his practice bag on the bleacher closest to the rink's entry above the kiss and cry. This was the reason they chose this hotel after all. It was easy access and never closed so long as one had a card key. Jack would live on the ice if he could.

It is 4AM. The rink is empty, precisely the way he likes it. He dons his skates, tugging his pant legs over the laces. Growing up in Alaska, Jack is used to low temperatures. But even Pierre starts to look at him funny when he strips down to a tank top and dance pants every practice. Jack loves the cold. It is the heat he cannot seem to stand for long.

When they were in California for a smaller state tournament, Adam took him to the beach.

Adam probably won't do that again.

Jack fishes out his ipod, threading the ear buds under his shirt and tucking them into place. He glides out onto the ice rink, effortlessly meandering around while he scrolls through playlists.

Jack's favorite thing is free-skating… where he can improvise, add, be spontaneous, and completely forget about Compulsory Figures, rigid patterns, and perfect form. There are no rules. He does use a dance blade for it though, as a personal preference.

He wants an upbeat, high energy song. Finally, he settles on Jason Derulo's _Undefeated_. He slips the device into his pocket. Jack proceeds around the ring, gathering speed and momentum.

The mysterious gift is all but forgotten. It may have been compliments of the restaurant. Perhaps the waitress saw what happened. Or maybe Cynthia sent it. After all, it did come wrapped in a big red bow… and she was sitting right next to him.

Whatever the case, it can wait. Jack clears his mind and closes his eyes. He leaps up, double axles, and lands. He turns and starts to skate backwards, banking along the far end of the rink.

* * *

Above, in the winding glass walled walkway…

"Here is the lineup for Tuesday night, Mr. Black. The Chairman wanted you to approve it personally."

Pitch accepts the paper, his amber eyes crawling down the list as they walk side by side. Pitch's leisurely stroll is more akin to gliding. He is in no hurry. One who does not sleep has all the time in the world. "No, no," his chocolate tone drips. "This is all wrong. You cannot possibly have the Chinese before an American entry, as the later cannot compare. The Chinese should follow." Pitch is midway through the motion of returning the program when he notices the lights of the amphitheater are on. Moreover, there is someone skating in the rink. He stops to observe, or, more appropriately, scrutinize.

* * *

Jack turns rightward, crouching low to build speed. He rises and leaps into a stag jump, lands, and dips into a lunge. He comes up, performs a bracket turn, and glides across the rink, raising one leg in a catch-foot camel position. He twizzles and switchbacks from forward to backward steps by turning his body. He banks, spreads his arms, easing into a layback spin in the heart of the rink.

Jack's movements are effortless, energetic, and natural. There is nothing aside from his life on the ice.

* * *

And Pitch… is impressed. Jack happens to open his eyes and see the imposing silhouette in the window. He comes to an abrupt halt, sending a shallow spritz of ice out from under his skate's blade. He stares at Pitch. And Pitch stares back. They are too far apart to see one another's eyes, but Pitch has a fairly good idea of the blue saucers probably resemble.

"I take it back," Pitch says with a deep, dark chuckle. "Keep the order. It may be entertaining to have such high expectations for an amateur."

* * *

Jack's eyes follow Pitch until the man and his mousey companion cross out of sight. Suddenly remembering to breathe, Jack greedily gulps up a bout of frozen air. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest. He yanks out his ear buds, flustered all over again. How long was Pitch watching?

* * *

It is the end of a long day of hard, ceaseless practicing. The rink is empty again and Pierre is packing up his knapsack. "Jack, it's almost midnight. You should go get some rest. You've earned it."

"I still don't have my triple down…" Jack protests.

"And if you overwork your muscles, you never will. Now, go get some rest. Coaches' orders." Pierre raises his hand in a wave as he ascends the stairs, the car keys that dangle from his palm jingling merrily. Jack responds in kind, smiling. Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do is return to his room. Not after last night's nightmare… But Pierre is right. He would never forgive himself if he got hurt this close to the Worlds.

Jack stops off at the locker room, deciding to shower off and change beforehand. It is as empty as the ice rink, but far less welcoming. He flips on the florescent lights which blink precariously before they come on. Jack selects the shower farthest from the doorway and undresses. He steps into the cubicle, turns on the faucet, and stands under the frigid water as it slowly warms up.

"_Jack."_

Jack spins around suddenly, met with the same grey, empty locker room. He frowns, leaning out to peer around the nearest row of lockers. He shakes his head and resumes soaping up. Maybe he should try to get some sleep afterall.

"_Jaaack,"_ sings the same wicked whisper.

Jack spins around again. "Hello?" he says aloud, considering turning off the water, dressing while he is still soaking wet, and hurrying out. His skin prickles, and not in the good way. This is getting downright creepy. Jack rinses off, facing so he can survey the room instead of the wall. There are no more incidents, but he is in a hurry to leave. He turns around and shuts the faucet off.

The farthest set of fluorescent lights clicks out. Jack stands, frozen, staring at his hand, as more and more sets go dark until he is corralled between his short shower walls with only the beam above him remaining... until that one goes too. Jack, paralyzed, hears footsteps behind him. His eyes start to adjust just as a cold hand slides around his abdomen and another around his throat.

Jack shivers, more inclined to blame it on the terror than the beads of water sliding down his body.

_"Are you afraid?"_ asks a voice that sounds oddly familiar.

"Y- yes," he manages, shaking. The haunting presence pushes up against his back, sandwiching him between it and its body. The long, large hand once positioned over his navel slides aside and down, easing over his hip. The being pushes again, slowly, sensuously, and Jack balks at the moan waiting in his own throat.

Lips against his ear. Smiling, wicked lips. _"Good."_

Jack's eyes snap open, assaulted by bright fluorescent lighting. He whirls around to find his visitor, but the room is empty and undisturbed. He races to his bag, ignores his towel completely, and dresses as quickly as he can. Jack doesn't even care what Adam would think at this point. He is totally going to sleep in his room!

* * *

"Come on, come on," Jack pleads, swiping his car key three times before the elevator reads it. He punches floor 11. Jack stares with bated breath at the digital readout above his head.

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

And then it stops with a startling DING.

And when the doors part, Jack comes face to face… with Pitch Black.

When he realizes he is gawking, he averts his eyes and shuffles aside.

Pitch's amber leer rakes down Jack's short, dripping frame to the growing puddle of shower water on the floor. He pins Jack in place with a decidedly spiteful smile. "That's alright. I'll catch the next one." The doors slide closed and the elevator climbs to floor eleven.

Jack decides against visiting Adam's room. The man will either think he is crazy and insist on heavy narcotics… or scream at him for not only soaking the floor of the elevator, but simultaneously making an idiot of himself in front of a judge. Once inside, he slumps against the door of his room and huffs out a dejected sigh. His clothing is sopping wet. Jack drops his bag and tromps into the washroom to towel off, change into some grey sweatpants, and hang his drenched garments up on the shower bar to dry. Upbeat music would help. He fishes around in his sports bag for his ipod. He frowns, rummaging deeper.

"No," he groans. He did. He completely forgot it in the locker room. He left it on the counter so it would be far enough from the water. And he's too much of a chicken to go get it! Right?

Jack paces back and forth for a moment. If he leaves it there too long, surely someone will steal it. And asking Adam to go with him would make him look like more of a child than he already does. What the hell is Pitch doing wondering the hotel at this hour anyway? He was probably on his way to his room… There is no way Jack will see him again.

Jack grabs his card key and his favorite hoodie and tiptoes out of the door and back down the hall. Just to be extra inconspicuous, he takes the stairs.

* * *

He skirts around the hotel lobby, headed for the amphitheater. He rounds the corner and runs right into…

"I see you're dry," Pitch mutters wryly, eyeing Jack all over again.

Jack scrambles for an excuse. "Y-yeah. Sorry about that. I guess I forgot my towel."

"Nothing a mop cannot handle," Pitch quips poisonously, his disapproval evident. "Quite scatterbrained tonight, aren't we_ Jack_? Seems your towel was not the only item that slipped your mind." Jack is awestruck when Pitch extracts his ipod from the pocket of his Armani suit. Jack stares at it, the strangeness of this encounter corrupting his reflexes. _"Afraid?"_

Jack's eyes snap up to Pitch's face. "What?"

Pitch merely blinks and inclines his chin. "That someone made off with it. You do have quite a collection on here. Vapid. But extensive."

"Oh… Th- thanks." Jack manages a shallow smile as he accepts the device and stuffs it (along with his hands) into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Jack shrinks under the enormous weight of Pitch's berating gaze. He sure picked an appropriate profession… Meanwhile, Pitch's eyes crawl down to Jack's bare feet. Jack curls his toes and turns them inward sheepishly. His cheeks are on fire.

"hm," Pitch dismisses, gliding past him and continuing on his way. Jack treks to the elevator, sulking and edgy. Something about that man… is strange. Something about that man is… something he wants. Or, erm, wants to understand. That's it.

* * *

That night, Jack has another nightmare.

* * *

**Author's note:** Wait… who said there was no magic in my AU_ supernatural _romance? Caaaause I sure didn't.

Love to you all!


	4. Delight in This

**A Word from Pitch;**

Hello hellions.

Bear in mind that this story is rated M. The author would rate it higher if she was able, or allowed rather. I understand Rise of the Guardians is an animated feature family film (in which I was completely botched and made a fool). Fun for all, let the light shine in, let freedom ring, hail the concurring hero, etc.

I _get it_.

_This,_ however, is in no way a cartoon. Moreover, in this delicious universe, I do not prey on children.

I prey on adults.

Why, you ask? Simply this.

Adults take more finesse to frighten. And once you truly frighten an adult, they will believe in you _forever_. Adults cannot "magic" away memories, or write them off, the way children can. No. Adults know better.

You think it is coincidence that this _entire _universe can see me?

The profession of a world class judge, who as a side makes more in a day than a typical mortal could in a lifetime, is mine to enjoy… as a carnal being. Stage fright is delightful.

Case in point - This is a live action NC17 rated fanfic. It is not for children.

If you are a child reading this, do go scour the site for more appropriate material. Save the erotica and pornography for your older years, lest there be nothing to look forward to. Naughty, tragic, nasty little things, mortals are.

Forewarning, it will only get "worse" from here. VisceralFringe is_** not**_ known for her family friendly material, which is why we get along quite splendidly. Let us now spare a moment for the children to click out of this window and remove themselves from this next highly explicit chapter.

To the rest, enjoy.

* * *

Jack's body is buzzing with energy and embarrassment by the time he finds his room. By this point, he is overtired and cannot fathom resting. Jack busies himself with unpacking and putting things where he thinks they belong. He scrolls through his ipod. "Vapid, huh?" he muses. "What does that even mean? Boring?" Jack guesses. Vocabulary has never been his strong suit.

Now his mood has him craving a good metal mix. He hooks himself up with some Psyclon Nine, a native band his mother would never, ever… ever… approve of.

He proceeds into a series of exercises in sets of fifteen: crunches, sit-ups, pushups, and then uses the crown of a doorframe for pull-ups. Just because Jack is short does not mean he is weak. The constant criticism has dulled his spunk, but he is physically more impressive than ever. He attempts five sets, finding himself winded by the fourth. He manages to get through the fifth, ending with his body misted with sweat and his muscles shaking from exhaustion.

"Damnit," Jack mutters. He is so wound up from what happened in the locker room. He does not want to lay down or close his eyes. His mind is playing tricks on him, drawing all manner of sordid similarities to his haunting experiences and Pitch Black. Jack makes a mental note to raid Adam's liquor stash at his earliest convenience. Granted, that will be after Worlds… assuming he can last that long.

The exercises were a bad idea. Now, his temperature is feverish and his body is unable to sit still. He peels himself out of his sweats, completely accustomed to the thong underwear his vocation requires. Jack, like many performers, does have his insecurities. He inspects himself in the bathroom mirror for lack of something better to do. Jack glances over his shoulder to take inventory of his posterior side. The ash blond is cut. He has to be in this game.

Jack starts to wonder what Pitch would think… He bites his lip. Jack's eyes widen in horror and he makes a disgusted face at himself. He combs his fingers through his hair – evidence of his anxiety.

Jack glances towards the bed waiting to embrace him. He eyes the other harmless furnishings incredulously. He needs to sleep. That must be the root of all these ludicrous fantasies. He is so tired, he hallucinated everything. Pierre's advice lingers into his mind. Sundays mean afternoon practice. He can sleep in.

He gradually turns off the hotel room's lights, but leaves the one in the bathroom on, cracking the door to let the warm glow spill into his room. Jack climbs onto the bed, his eyes darting over the room. He forces his breathing to even out as he lays down. He is still too hot to be under the covers. Plus, this makes it much easier to escape… if need be.

He must sleep. He is competing for the World Championship the day after tomorrow. He shuts his eyes, squeezing them tightly. He refuses to open them for any reason, which is why he does not notice the bathroom light go out, or the smoky black sand threading its way under the door.

* * *

Within five minutes, Jack is asleep, out cold; his body sinking gratefully into the mattress. The black tendrils snake upwards, swirling around the bedskirt. More coalesce at the foot of the bed. They slither upwards, spilling out and combing the bed, inching their way towards the sleeping teen. Jack hardly stirs when they start to caress him, creeping over his limbs and up towards his nose. Jack turns his head and inadvertently inhales a breath of black sand. There is nothing that will wake him now, aside from being released from the Nightmare King's clutches. His body is free to react apart from his consciousness, unfettered by his inhibitions.

The sand, solidifying, ropes its way around Jack's throat. Two more tendrils wind down his arms and seize his wrists which they slowly drag under his back. More swarm his bare legs, curling around his knees and ankles, prying them farther apart. Jack groans softly in his sleep, his shoulders moving just slightly. He sighs gently. The sand probes farther, ghosting over the nipples of his chest and his inner thighs.

"mmm-" Jack unconsciously hums. He squirms a little.

His pulse heightens. His desire grows. His body reacts of its own accord. One tendril worms its way into the confines of his lacking underwear, rubbing against him and moving lower. It explores. Jack's lips open in a surprised cry when the tendril abruptly penetrates him. Another forms and plunges into his mouth. Jack emits a choked moan. He bows his back, at the mercy of the writhing tendrils.

Meanwhile, a tall, dark silhouette looms at the foot of the bed. His glowing citrine leer fixes on the arousal tenting Jack's scant dancewear. No matter how much Pitch craves to touch him, he resists. For now, he is content to watch his black sands ravish his prey – his blushing cheeks, his pert nipples, his tense arms, his muscular thighs, his young snowy flesh so easily stained, and the flash of his throat as he tries to breathe. Jack will need to undergo extensive preparation if Pitch truly intends to use him as planned.

"_My forgetful little ice fairy… I intend to enjoy you to the fullest. Delight in this. It will only get better."_

Jack's moans become desperate and strangled, even over their engorged obstruction. The way Jack's hips start to undulate as he sucks lasciviously on the tendril sends Pitch's mouth watering.

"_That's it." _

Pitch's pulsing tendrils seek deeper. Jack's telling expression of immense pleasure and absolute abandon lets him know the one between his thighs has found an ideal spot. Pitch longs to replace the sand with something more personal. But it is not time. He must deny himself. It will only make the ultimate conquest more gratifying. Pitch will teach him, through these erotic dreams and explicit visits, precisely what to do. He will cultivate a lust in Jack so insatiable, so primitive, that the boy will beg to have him. He knew from the instant he saw him at dinner that only he would satisfy his truest hungers. Jack Frost will serve him well.

Release rages through Jack and Pitch adopts a wicked smirk as the boy's seed streams his own torso.

"_Come now. Play time is over,"_ Pitch prompts, drinking in Jack's sexually spent body, splayed and vulnerable before him, while the boy is catching his breath. The black sands recede and rejoin with their master who senses the experience even more vividly with them wholly apart of him. Pitch breathes a satisfied sigh.

"_Soon Jack. Sleep now. This is all in your head. But remember…Nightmares are a matter of perspective. They can become the best of dreams if you only embrace the fear."_

* * *

Two minutes later, Jack springs up in bed, finding his torso sticky with his own cum. It has been years since he had a wet dream. His cheeks are hot. His entire body is flushed. His thong is half tented. There is an easy way to fix this, but for some reason, Jack does not think self-pleasure will suffice. Neither will a woman.

* * *

Adam answers his door, sleepy eyed and squinting against the hall light as he runs a hand down his face. Jack stands there in his sweatpants. "What's up kiddo?"

Jack hooks his hair behind his ear, pursing his lips. "Can I come in?" he whispers, hoping Adam won't notice the color in his cheeks.

"Sure," Russell says, stepping aside. Jack enters and shuts the door, slouching back against it, grateful for the support. "What's up?" Adam inquires, rubbing his eyes.

Jack did not think this far ahead. But he is so aroused… "I… I um…" _Shit. Out with it. _"I want to have sex with you."

And all the sudden, Adam is wide awake. "Excuse me?"

Jack musters all of his courage, occasionally meeting his eyes. "I… w- want to have sex with you."

Adam, slackjawed, gawks at him. He flips on the overhead light. "Jackie… are you drunk?"

"No," Jack confesses sheepishly, his voice cracking. His breaths come shaky. He isn't himself at all.

Adam shakes his head sympathetically. "Jack… Jay… Jackie." Adam fumbles with words until he says, "You're underage. I'm _twice _your age. And I'm not gay."

"Barely. I'll be eighteen in two months. And I'm not gay either," he adds quickly. And then Adam, who is thirty one, gives him this _look _and Jack balks. "I'm not!" Adam folds his arms, accentuating his chest. Jack has never noticed how broad his shoulders are or how sexually enticing he is until tonight. Adam is not chiseled, but he is toned. His body suggests, rather than shouts. He's large… assertive… protective… controlling… Jack flushes and swallows thickly. "I'll do anything."

"Jackie…" Adam sighs, watching him with newfound… something-or-other. "As tempting as this is… you can't risk it. And I can't risk it. You have two days until Worlds. I could hurt you."

Jack can't keep the desperation out of his eyes or his voice. "I want you to," he whispers.

Adam approaches him with concern, his sleepwear low around his hips. He frames Jack's jaw with his hand. His palm is warm and broad. "After Worlds," Adam whispers. He smiles gently, trying to calm him down, to reassure him. "After Worlds, ok?"

Jack doesn't understand, not in his current state of mind. "You take control of my life every day. Every minute. Why not now?" Jack insists.

"Jackie," Adam soothes, "What is this about?" His thumb strokes his cheek.

All the sudden, Jack wants to tell him a slew of things. He hardly notices how much he is shaking. "Can I sleep with you? Just sleep?" Jack whispers on the verge of tears. "I don't want to go back in that room, Adam." He starts to shake his head. "There's something in that room. There's something following me."

Adam wraps him up in his warm arms and sighs apologetically. He props his chin on Jack's head. "You've been working too hard." He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "I've been working you too hard."

"I'm scared, Adam," Jack chokes out. He feels violated and exposed and he cannot explain why. He has mixed revelations about it too.

"Of what?" Adam asks carefully, the pads of his fingers traversing Jack's bare spine.

Jack pauses, because he cannot answer truthfully. It would provoke too many questions… and Adam would probably laugh at him. "I don't know," he says.

Adam accepts that answer without question. "I have you. I 'ave you, mate," Adam tells him, his birth accent slipping through his professional speech.

* * *

A few minutes later, Adam guides Jack into his bedroom. He pulls back the covers and climbs in. Jack does the same from the opposite side. The ash blond immediately moves closer and snuggles up against his side. Adam is worried. This is not like Jack – not at all. The boy is normally quite distant and quiet. Did something happen? Adam turns towards Jack without a word and wraps an arm around him. Jack tucks in under his chin.

As much as Adam knows he grates on Jack's nerves, Jack apparently needs him… especially in times like this. It is probably just the result of stress overload from the upcoming championship. It has to be.

"Jackie?" he says.

"Yeah?" Frost whispers, sounding close to tears. Adam can feel his young fists uncurl and his fingers dust over his chest.

Adam swallows. "Winning isn't everything. Ok? I know I tell you otherwise but… you're such a great skater. I wish I had half the talent you do. You're amazing. You're incredible. And you don't need some title to tell you that."

He can feel Jack's lips on his chest, kissing him, as surely as he can feel the two teardrops that follow. Jack kisses his chest, his collar, and his throat. "Are… Are you sure we can't?" he whispers against his skin. "I won't tell anyone."

Adam is conflicted for the first time that night. He can imagine it – every detail. "Not tonight," Adam whispers, despite the growing erection in his athletic pants. Jack's hand travels down his torso just under the waistband. Adam seizes his wrist before the hand can reach its target. "Not tonight," he reminds hotly against Jack's forehead.

"Can I just feel it?" Jack asks. The innocence and curiosity in his quiet, quaking voice melts Adam's resolve. He relinquishes his grip on Jack's wrist. His hand explores. It touches and tickles, caressing and sweeping. Before Adam knows what is happening, both hands are down his pants and Jack's tongue his exploring his left nipple.

"Jack," Adam warns, seizing the boy by the upper arm.

"Let me," Jack pleads. "_Please_… Let me. I just want to understand."

"I did not take you to bed for this," Adam says, teeth clenched.

* * *

"I know," Jack replies. "Just let me." Adam's grip reluctantly complies, easing into a rubbing motion against Jack's arm. Jack strokes and tugs, feeling his shaft solidify under his palms. It is warm and smooth… and _hard_. "Wow," he whispers, unable to keep the grin off his face. "It's big." Adam breathes against Jack's hair, clearly more aroused with every passing second. "Does it feel good?" Jack wonders, moving his head to prop his chin on Adam's chest.

"It does," Adam whispers. "_It does._"

Jack's entire body sings in symphonies of tingles at the way Adam answers. He can sense the man reacting and it makes Jack's desire skyrocket. Jack looks down again, his lips so close to Adam's chest. He wants him. He wants to do this. He wants Adam… _inside_ of him. Jack is even vaguely aware how he wants it to be, and how it might feel, but he has no idea how he knows this. He's so far out of his comfort zone. He's so nervous. He's so… horny.

Jack's nose brushes over the man's skin. He kisses his collar bone. Against the flesh of his throat, "Can I lick it?" His eyes glance up at the face he can't quite see.

* * *

Adam groans with need, retreating just enough to separate their torsos. He knows, should Jack's lips find his gentleman's sword, that there is no turning back. Adam cranes his neck down and fits his forehead against Jack's upturned brow. He presses sincerely. "Jackie… we have to stop. We can't. I could lose my job. You could be disqualified for the scandal. The consequences of this—"

* * *

But before he can finish, Jack swiftly shuts him up with a kiss. Jack does not kiss often. He kisses as little as he… well… tries to seduce his boss. So there is no telling as to whether he is good at it or not.

All Jack knows is that he wants Adam, desperately.

He must not be half bad, because Adam kisses back and eventually rolls on top of him. The crushing weight of the grown man's bulk is somehow comforting and highly pleasurable. Jack separates his legs. Adam just barely starts to induce friction between their loins when he suddenly remembers.

* * *

"We can't," Adam vows against his lips. Jack's thumbs pinch and rub at his nipples while he gently nibbles on his bottom lip. "Jack," Adam half moans. He wants nothing more than to act on instinct and burry himself inside him. Impious fantasies fill his mind as he wonders how Jack would look covered in sweat and cum, or how vocal he might be… how_ flexible_ he is. Shit.

Adam has to stop this. It has to end. He braces his palms on the bed, creating space. "Jack!" Jack stops, staring up at him as if he was struck, with wide, blue, sparkling hues. Adam relents as he watches the light leak out of Jack's expression, replaced with shame as he shrinks inward and averts his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispers. He starts to quiver again and folds his arms. "I feel so strange. I'm sorry."

Adam watches him. "I want to," he expresses, willing his heart to stop racing.

"You do?" Jack asks, venturing a glance into his face.

Adam eyes him dubiously. "You know I want to." Just to prove it, Adam pushes his groin against Jack's thigh. Jack cracks a smile.

"After Worlds?" Jack asks, starry eyed.

"After Worlds." Adam sinks down between his meaty arms and kisses him.

* * *

Jack's sex drive puts on the breaks, decelerating. They settle in beside each other, Jack's head tucked into the crease of Adam's arm. "You want to know something stupid?" Jack whispers as he traces meaningless patterns in Adam's bare skin.

Adam glances down, his head propped up on his other bicep. He waits.

Jack bites at the insides of his cheeks. "If you couldn't tell… I've never had sex before."

Adam chuckles. "You want to know something worse?"

"Yes!" Jack replies excitedly, nestling against him.

Adam sighs dourly. "My middle name is Bunnymund."

"…" Jack sits up, planting his palms on the mattress. "What?!" he exclaims, devolving into a fit of laughter. He tumbles aside, chuckling.

Adam smirks. "Yeah. Laugh it up, Frosty." Adam scoops Jack back into the safety of his arms. Jack feels better here. He nods off quickly and sleeps through the night against Adam's chest. Nothing else visits him in the darkness.

For now.


	5. Bernadette

SAY YES TO THE GIN.

Secondly, I stumbled across a band called IAMX today. Their song _Volatile Times_ is TOTALLY a Pitch Black theme song, or what I envision to be the truest cry of the sliver of the heart he has left. (Because I do believe Pitch is capable of being redeemed. Though that will not happen in this fic. BAHA.) Even the official video is bizarrely Pitch-like. _Bernadette_ is also phenomenal, which is why I named this chapter after it. There is a JackxPitch video on youtube to that song. Almost all of IAMX's tracks have a Pitch Black feel to them. Yummy!

Kraken8988: I adore you. Thank you reading this and supporting my strangeness. Your encouragement and friendship means so much.

Mangalho: I am very single. Unfortunately, I am also 5'10" with an affinity for stilettos (making me regularly Pitch's height), quite shallow, bisexually inclined, and a very free spirited individual who detests romantic entanglements. Handling me via marriage would be bitterly unfair to you. –wink; lol

Captain Mushroom: No luv. Cynthia is not Sandman, but Sandman is referenced in this chapter, as is Cynthia's AU identity.

Starsinjars: A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you too sweet one!

Great Noodle King: You're incorrigible.

Whit3Noiz Tenri: Thank you dearie. Dai suki dayo! I will do just that. Um… Pitch has something to say to you as well. :]

**No, woman. I most certainly do not.**

Pitch Thomas Loki Black, you march yourself out from that corner and tell this upstanding young person what we practiced.

**Ehk … Tenri, I extend my blandest gratitude, and simultaneous condolences, for your eternal obsessive support.**

… You added things.

**A necessary evil.**

He means thank you. And?

**And for your superficial complements.**

And?

**If I catch the ice brat is not up for debate. It is merely a matter of when. **

_And?_

… **And I am returning to my corner now to suffer and sulk through this appalling chapter. **

Yay! Friends! To all: Your reviews are wonderful and inspire me to do my very best at being my worst! Arigatou gozaimasu!

**Interesting predictions as well. Keep your day jobs. **

That's all! :D

* * *

Jack rouses to the sound of the shower running. He opens his eyes, emerging into a room much like his, only there are suits and ties in this closet and draped over the ottoman.

_Adam…_

Jack remembers.

Early afternoon light spills in through the split in the blackout curtains. He should be at practice somewhat soon. Somewhat soon, but not now. There's a tray of breakfast food on the nightstand – strawberries, buttered toast, and scrambled eggs. Jack smiles to himself and sits up in bed.

"Pierre's going to kill me," he muttered, snatching up a piece of toast. He gulps it down and sucks his fingers clean. He washes it down with a swig of Adam's strong peppermint coffee that makes him cringe in the most delightful way. His thoughts wander to last night and how they came so close to… How close they came to…

Heat floods his cheeks.

_After Worlds_, Adam said. It's for the best, he knows. As inexperienced as he is, there would probably be a day or two of being completely out of commission: stiff and sore and unable to move properly. Unacceptable, especially for a figure skater. Jack bites his lip and glances towards the bathroom. He carefully slides out of bed and tip toes across the floor. The door is slightly ajar. He pauses at the threshold to listen to Adam pad around the shower, occasionally humming to some song only he knows.

_Adam…_

Jack takes a deep breath and slips inside, his path partially shrouded in steam. Jack is only half aware of what he is doing as his feet take him to the curtain. Jack takes a deep breath and drops his garments. He steps inside the shower. Adam whirls around and sees him. They stare at one another for a long moment, the steamy air thick with apprehension, questions, and an almost child-like shyness at their mutual nakedness. Adam's green eyes gaze at him under thick brown eyebrows. They decide simultaneously, through no logical reasoning, that they are nowhere near close enough. They collide, Adam's body absorbing the majority of the impact, his arms nearly lifting Jack off his toes.

Their lips immediately lock. They're kissing furiously. Jack's fingers are all tangled up in Adam's hair. Adam's hands are elsewhere, but they are no less tenacious. Jack is quickly soaked from a combination of Adam's wet body and the constant deluge of shower water. Both erect and wanting, Adam reaches behind him and fumbles for the faucet lever.

They manage to make it to the bed, steam rolling off their bodies into the cooler air. Adam turns just in time for Jack to fall on top of him. Their bodies dry with heat and linens, dampening the bedsheets, until the mist of sweat bubbles up on the skin. The kissing never stops. Jack's hips undulate against Adam's crotch. He can imagine it – Adam's cock embedded deep inside him, throbbing… hard… filling.

Adam's hands trench into his buttocks. He grasps him possessively, kneading and squeezing even inch of his thighs and other intimate areas. Adam groans beneath him, against his lips, and against his tongue. Adam seizes Jack around the waist and suddenly sits up on the edge of the bed. "We can't," he reminds him, trying to come back to himself even as his hands drag Jack's body closer.

Jack, straddling his hips, is hardly deterred. He punches a finger into the center of Adam's chest. "_You_ can't," Jack whispers hotly, stealing kisses in the meantime. "I can." Jack's bedroom blues track over Adam's face. He is nervous, but sure of what he wants. Adam gazes back intently, not knowing exactly what he means. Jack presses against his lips once more, then twice. He kisses his chin, his neck, his chest. Jack moves lower.

A few seconds later, Adam's jaw goes slack.

Jack spends several moments merely licking while Adam is driven mad with want. Adam nearly loses it when Jack's lips finally slide over his cock, his mouth warm and wet. The boy moves fluidly along his stiff shaft. Adam combs his fingers through Jack's hair, savoring every eager suck. He knots his fingers into the boy's ash blond locks.

Adam's phone starts to buzz on the nightstand within reach. And Adam can't bring himself to stop him. He lets it ring. It eventually goes to voicemail.

But immediately, the phone starts to ring again.

Adam sets his jaw. "Hang on," he says. But at this point, Jack does not care and finds it entirely more fun to continue doing exactly what he's doing. Adam curses under his breath, trying to get his voice under control. He snatches up the phone and checks the id. It's Pierre. "Fuck," he mumbles. He composes himself to the best of his ability and answers it. "Hello?" Adam says tensely, eyes shut and jaw tight.

The wary response from Pierre, "Hey. Adam, glad I caught you. Is Jack with you? He's not answering his phone."

Adam swallows hard. "Yeah. Yes he's… He's right here." Sucking his dick.

Pierre chuckles. "Well… he's supposed to be at practice."

Jack starts to suck harder. Adam cracks a grin. "_Yeah_…" he sighs before he can stop himself.

"… What?"

Adam scrambles for an excuse. Soberly, "Yeah. Sorry. We um… stopped for a late breakfast."

Pierre sighs in relief. "Good. I'm glad he slept in. Is he eating well?"

Adam glances down, his eyebrows jumping up. "Oh, yeah. He's… He's eating great." Below, Jack grins, as much as his full mouth will allow.

Exuberantly, "Fantastic! Send him down to the rink when he's done. We should polish everything for tomorrow."

"Right. Sure." Adam hangs up, barely able to curb the moan that explodes from his lips as Jack takes him deep into his throat. "Where- where the hell… did you learn how to-?" He moans again, pulling at the boy's hair. "Jack… I-" His seed erupts from his sex, the orgasm surging through him. At first, Jack is uncertain what to do with his mouthful of semen. He elects to swallow. He milks Adam's cock until it's through. The man moans lowly, gratefully. His hand moves to stroking through Jack's hair while the boy licks his manhood completely clean. Adam hoists Jack back up into his lap.

"Ok," Adam relents breathlessly, eyes tracing the telling path from Jack's eyes to his lips. "Maybe I'm a little gay. Or… bi… or something."

"Maybe," Jack indulges. Adam presents Jack with his middle finger, which he licks, nips at, and sucks on.

"Right. Let me play a bit with you then," Adam suggests against his lips. He removes the finger from Jack's mouth and inserts it between his thighs. Jack blushes at the intrusion. Adam can't do more than that though. Adam swears to himself to use only one finger. The other hand wraps around Jack's cock. Jack closes his eyes with a crocked smile. Adam thumbs the precum over the head. Jack's hands knead into his shoulders and chest.

"More?" Jack begs against his lips.

Adam shakes his head. "I can't. I won't." Jack makes a desperate face. Adam grins as he manages to find his prostate at the same moment. Jack responds with what must be the most erotic moan Adam has ever heard. A few good probes, strokes, and jerks later, release rips through him. Adam sucks on Jack's neck as the teen rides the feeling to fruition.

Jack can feel Adam's new erection pressing against his ass.

But there's a cure for that. And it's waiting in the shower.

* * *

The animal magnetism between Jack and Adam does not wane, even after their next shower, even after Jack has drank him down a second time. Adam pushes Jack up onto the bathroom counter. Jack's legs are wrapped around Adam's waist. He wants it. He wants it so bad. Their kisses are sloppy, infected with whatever unholy ailment has contaminated them.

They can't stop. Jack begs against his lips.

"I _can't_," Adam laments painfully. There is not a place on Jack's body that his hands have not intimately explored.

"Adam, please…" Jack begs, bracketing the man's face between his hands.

Adam cannot look at him, so he looks away. "You have to go to practice. You're competing tomorrow. You have to go to practice."

Jack groans reluctantly. Adam is right. They separate, but they are not happy about it.

* * *

They both dress. Adam fits himself into his suit and slacks. Jack puts his sweats back on. Adam is adjusting his tie when Jack spots a certain glaring problem.

The elevator ride down to the lobby is nearly unbearable. They stopped off at Jack's room beforehand, so the boy could put on fresh clothes and grab his gym bag, but ended up horsing around for another fifteen minutes. Adam is almost spent, but Jack seems to be insatiable. Adam has no idea what has gotten into him, but he knows he fucking _loves_ it.

They step out into the lobby and face one another.

"I'll um… see you after practice," Adam says, inclining his chin.

"Yeah. Ok," Jack replies, his eyes frequently darting to his lips, his chest, his –.

"We're going to a show-on-ice tonight, courtesy of the Blacks." Adam is blushing, shifting continuously. "I'll swing by your room around 7PM to get you."

Jack ruffles up his ash blond hair. "Assuming Pierre doesn't have my head for being late. What time is it anyway?"

* * *

"Jack Frost, do you know what time it is?!" Pierre confronts at the bottom of the bleachers, clad in a particularly obnoxious argyle sweater and black skating pants.

He is first generation American. His parents were both Swedish. In his youth, Pierre won three World Championships, competing in both junior and later senior events after twenty one, more so in partner skating than in singles. He is a tall man. He towers over Jack, but not in the same way Pitch does. Pierre has a swimmer's figure, which is unusual for a figure skater. The man is built like a tank, his blonde hair peppered with grey and silver. His Spartan's jaw is lined with the stubble that will soon become a beard, which Jack likes to tease him about. He is divorced from German shrew of a woman who was so jealous of his time with Jack that she tried to give him food poisoning at one of their Christmas parties. He has been Jack's coach since he was seven years old.

Pierre Von Claus is his full name.

Before Jack can answer him, "It's 1PM. You were supposed to be here at noon! I—… What's on your neck?" Pierre demands. Jack's eyes bulge, his pulse promptly flat lining. Adam must have stamped him, dammit. He braces for a tongue lashing.

Pierre's bushy brows knit together. "Adam was covering for you wasn't he? Damn baboon, I knew he sounded funny!" Jack sucks his lips inward to curb the impish smile that threatens them. "Jack, this is not funny. And this is no time to be fooling around. I'm serious. Showing up late, staying up until all hours of the night, waltzing off with one-nighters… You know better than this. You're competing for the World Championship tomorrow and frankly, you should feel ashamed for showing up in the state you're in. You're more responsible than this."

Pierre's big blues so normally full of wonder are pregnant with conviction. Jack cannot look at him. Jack shuffles his feet as his face grows hot. "I'm sorry. You're right," he remits. Pierre_ is_ right. Until recently, Jack has never been late to practice or shirk his duties. Skating has always come first. Always.

Pierre sighs, assuming more of a wry smirk. He plants his hands on his hips. "You're lucky you worked so hard yesterday. Honestly, we don't have a whole lot left to polish. Get your skates on."

"Yes sir," Jack says hastily.

* * *

Adam and Jack take a cab to Diamond Dais Performing Arts Center where they are to see a premier sister-play to Swan Lake called Black Swan, adapted for ice. Several versions of other adapted plays are also being shown in the theater, in honor of Worlds. There, they will meet up with Pierre, Cynthia, and Pitch Black, who is responsible for attaining the tickets, in the lobby.

It is raining outside, but the air is bitterly cold, suggesting they might be in for snow in the bleakest patches of the night. Jack stands between Pierre and Adam who are half-joking about the incident earlier, of which Pierre has the wrong idea, but it suits their purposes well. Pierre was quite understanding about the whole thing. After all, Jack is a growing boy and the vocational stress and pressure coupled with typical teenage hormones is not easy to wade through.

Pierre even suggested the frozen-spoon technique which, paired with some foundation and stage makeup, worked wonders. He is a good man.

Jack has just enough to time mull over the weather when Cynthia hurries inside, the crisp click of her heels resounding over the glossy tile. Pitch seems to cleave from the darkness just behind her.

She starts pulling off her sleek leather gloves. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry we're late. My last patient had a particularly nasty cavity that needed immediate attention. The holiday season is a breeding ground for decay where sugar abounds in spades."

"You're a dentist then?" Adam asserts.

Cynthia blinks until it dawns on her that she neglected to tell them so. "I am," she laughs. "Forgive me for not warning the lot of you sooner!" They chuckle and Pierre assures her all is well. As she folds her coat over her arms, "Anyhow. Our newest hygienist, sweet sweet girl, is still in training. Like a baby, she needs close to constant supervision, which is why I could not leave the office as planned. Come along, we should probably find our seats." She ushers the lot of them towards the theater.

* * *

After they get settled in and put their coats down, "Jack!" Cynthia calls, gesturing for him. "Come with me to concessions. I'd like to treat you."

Jack stands. "Ok!" he laughs. "Isn't that sort of… backwards for a dentist?"

Cynthia shrugs, "Keeps me in business. Besides, I can tell you have excellent hygiene habits." She extends her hand, grinning blithely. Jack takes it and she tugs him back down the hall.

Pierre pats his washboard. "Come to think of it, some kettle-corn doesn't sound like a bad idea. You fellows want anything?"

"No," says Pitch hollowly.

"Can you grab me a Sprite?" Adam asks, tucking a five dollar bill into Pierre's hand. "Thanks mate." The coach nods cheerfully and follows in Cynthia's footsteps. As it happens, Pitch and Adam sit beside one another, within perfect range to share a private conversation under the stage music and miscellaneous commotion.

"_What_ do you think you're doing?" Pitch oozes lowly, his ambers fused with the stage.

Adam bristles. "I can explain."

"Don't bother. I can smell it on him. I'm not sure if that disturbs me more or less than smelling him on you. I hope it hasn't slipped your mind who made you what you are, who plucked you from the garbage heap in that god-rotten bone dry outback, and who can take it all away just as easily. It would be such a shame for this to leak to the press, by whatever means."

"What does your sister think about all this? About you?"

"What my sister does not know does not hurt her. But should she ever find out, her presence on this earth will be short lived. Do not think that because she is kin that I hold her any dearer than I do vermin like you."

Adam swallows, his hands tightening around the arm rests of his seat. "… What do you want?"

Pitch rubs his fingers together to bide his time, creating a black mist that quickly dissipates. Adam shivers in spite of himself. "What I've always wanted, what I always take – the thing most dear to you. Ironically, in this case, that just so happens to be the thing you cannot have, legally or otherwise."

"What will you do to him?"

"That is none of your concern. The fact is that my old toy is broken and it is high time for an upgrade."

Adam knows he means Sydney Sands, whom he represented in the 2008 World Figure Skating Championships. Sydney was nineteen. He won… and that was the last time Adam ever saw him. It has haunted him since. "I won't give him up to you. Not without a fight."

Pitch smiles maliciously. "Ah. Now you've grown a backbone have you? Then a fight you shall have." He turns his head and looks directly at Adam. Viciously, "And you will lose."

* * *

AN: Expect the next chapter _Volatile Times_ within a day or so in which we will take a dive into Pitch's POV. ;]

**Super. **


	6. Volatile Times

While they stand in line for the cash register, "You know Ms. Black—"

"Cynthia sweetie. None of that silly prefix formality." She has such an endearing smile.

"Cynthia then," Jack says, reciprocating. "You already sent that package the first night. You really don't need to go through all this trouble for me."

She frowns curiously, plucking a bottled water from the shelf where it sits chilling. "What package, sweetheart?"

* * *

Black Swan is a theory he can relate to more ardently than he cares to admit. Pitch bears it in silence, grievously, his mind mincing fetid food for thought and his stomach rolling at the way Jack sneaks his hand into Adam's grasp. The night drags on like a grueling giant, slaving under the weight of the entire world. He yearns to grind Adam's bones into dust.

They all thank him at the end. He ignores it, all except for Frost.

As Pitch fits his pale hands and long slender digits into his gloves, "Privilege comes with status, Jack. Let us hope you aspire to greatness as well." With a nod, they go their separate ways. Cynthia passes the ride to her residence with the usual mindless chatter. He hardly feels bereft when he opens her door and helps her out onto the curb of her address.

* * *

Midnight.

As Pitch eases out of his sleek black Lamborghini inside the walled grounds of his estate house, the vehicle dissolves into a storm of black sand and smog. The seasonal snow in the air falls as ash here, leaving no such white blanket in his immediate territory. Pitch's sands swirl riotously and flank him up the drive. With a wave of his hand, he destroys the wrought iron gate guarding his place of residence. It will rebuild behind him, unblemished. The cycloning sands climb, conjoin, and collect into the shape of a great black horse. His Night Mare follows him. She will follow him to the ends of this earth and the next. She is his only companion. She is all he really has.

The walls of the entry pathway converge into sharp marble stairs, framed by poisonous blooms, fastidious vines, and other virulent plants. He proceeds through the courtyard. His gardens are tended by phantom hands, sewn with the seeds of iniquity. The mare stops to graze. The front door melts and solidifies behind him. The house itself unfolds like an unraveling piece of fabric, as though it too is made of the same black sand - crushed obsidian - dropping the guise of concrete and steel. It reconstructs, spiraling upward in sharp black towers and spires. He enters his home even as it shifts, in which he is utterly and absolutely alone. Solace and solitude and seclusion. Dreary. Desolate. Dark.

Every man is an island.

And his island is treacherous – nigh un-navigable.

(As a side, it is also the biggest.)

He stares vacantly ahead. His suit thaws into a liquefied black mass, bleeding down into a long black robe, his legs and feet wrapped in charcoal. The center slit from the collar exposes a sizable chunk of his pale chest. His amber eyes assume an unholy resonance, a leer that can burn holes into the hearts of men. Thus, he dons his true appearance and it fits him like a glove.

He proceeds towards his bedroom, spreading his arms to drag his fingers tipped in sharp black nails over the walls. The paint blackens in his wake, swallowed by the swirling darkness that leaks from his touch. The patterns snake and swirl, breeding into a solid black.

This world has its advantages.

This world has so many advantages.

To clarify – No, _this _Pitch Black was not originally magically inclined.

As implied in the term alternate universe, albeit those that tangent through future or past, every universe exists unto its own time continuum, following its own agenda, spinning on its own axis with its own sun, and its own sense of reality. But darkness, one must remember, is pervasive and constant. And, like water, darkness connects each dimension. This Pitch Black is dual consciousness… in one man. The human was born into this word, but the monster bled through its own reality, seeking him out after his defeat, hunting him ravenously for want of vengeance against the wretched Guardians that destroyed and humiliated him. The night Pitch met and merged with his extra-dimensional mirror was dark, but every night since then has been darker. Pitch has vague memories of each of his adversaries, but none more vividly than Jack Frost. Young, vibrant, boisterous Jack Frost.

Cold. Cold and dark. _What goes together better than cold… and dark?_

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Pitch knows Jack will complete him. Melted, Jack's ice and Pitch's night can genesis into a single profane entity. Pitch can be whole with him, swimming and drowning in eternal blackness together. Perfection. He will rule from a throne of his own making where Jack will worship at his feet. Seeking out each infernal entity in this universe was no easy task, but it was necessary. This is Pitch's world. This ending shall be his, and his alone.

His fate in the opposing reality will never occur here. Here, Pitch is superior. Here, Pitch cannot be defeated. Because in the true human world, good does not prevail. In the truest human world, greed, pride, and evil will always reign triumphant. The Guardians, or in this case, the Guardians of Jack Frost, are weak – malleable like molten lead.

His closet stacks with skeletons. His hands are heavy with dried blood. His heart dies with each passing day he remains unchallenged and stagnant. And in the backyard, gravestones accumulate of those come before… Those who have failed him.

Pitch is losing touch with what it is to be human. Mere spider thin threads connect him to essential emotions. He is lost. He is lost in a way that will never be remedied.

Still… While his wickedness yearns for total destruction, his human shard still hungers for someone to share it with. He wants to infect – to pollute – to contaminate. He must, he _must_, have another like him, who needs and indulges and praises.

Jack Frost will be, from his perspective, his salvation. Jack Frost has the propensity to evolve into something deliciously impious, a sexual cure that cannot be synthetically brewed. The transformation is already beginning, the impurity germinating in his heart, roosting in his core and spreading roots around what remains.

Soon, the darkest shadowmancer, the primordial thief in the night, will stitch together dusty corners and forgotten silhouettes in order to haunt his prey and nurture that seed. And soon, Adam will die. They all will _die_. They will all be a distant mirage in an otherwise black, rotting world. Pitch has no reason to seek fame… not anymore. He only wants to be legendary to one person - one young man - one young man he will wound beyond repair - one young man he will seduce and swaddle in lies. And he will be his. Forever. Possession. Promise.

Permanence.

Finally.

* * *

Jack drops into bed after the taxi ride home, wishing he could be in Adam's room rather than his own. The man insisted on getting his proper rest the night before the competition. The championship is, strangely, the last thing on Jack's mind. Granted, it is more prominent in his mind now than last night… but still. Jack finds it strange that such a crucial occasion would be put on the backburner.

Is this how all horny teenagers feel?

Jack strips out of his slacks and white-collar before sprawling out in bed on his stomach. He is still chilled from the wintry flurries outside and elects to burrow in under the covers tonight. He hugs the pillow under his cheek sleepily. In the back of his mind, he is beginning to hope that whatever perverse presence has been visiting him "in his sleep" will manifest again.

He is not disappointed.

* * *

AN; Stay turned for _Kingdom of Welcome Addiction_. (Another IAMX song that would make an exceptional trailer tune.)


	7. Kingdom of Welcome Addiction

_I'd like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you readers._

_The encouragement you supply really, really helps._

_You're awesome._

* * *

Jack finds himself in a world unlike any he has ever imagined. He stands in the midst of a vast, fallow field. Above him, great chunks of land slowly float across the sky. Castles, mausoleums, cathedrals, and pieces of lands long forgotten pass overhead. Some of them collide, reduced to a floating plethora of debris suspended in the air. Aside from the hellish crescendo of the colliding isles, this place is devoid of sound.

Jack's attention strays to the horizon where he sees a figure astride a great black horse. Jack ventures a step forward. The figure turns his horse and spurs it in the opposite direction. They fade into the distance, like a mirage. Jack, having no idea of his location, dashes after them. Suddenly, there is nothing under his feet.

He plummets downwards, hands searching in the blackness for something to grab ahold of. His descent comes to an abrupt halt when his feet meet the ground. He emerges into a grey, rocky world awash in shadow. Empty cages hang from the ceiling. He searches, though he does not know what he seeks. The jagged crags loom in ominous shapes. He crosses a bridge. Jack chances a glance downward, his eyes met with a black abyss that transcends his definition of infinite. He finds himself in a circular sanctum, much taller than it is wide. There are seven identical shadows on the walls. They circle him vulturously. Jack is frightened. Yet, even as he acknowledges his fear, it is as though the feeling is being syphoned from him.

_"Cold and dark,"_ lures a velvety voice. _"What blends better than cold and dark?"_

"Who are you?" Jack asks the emptiness. Two amber eyes open and leer at him from a black passage ahead. The ticking of a clock swims into his ears. Or is it a heartbeat? Jack regards the eyes warily. They grow. Jack starts to retreat, his steps uncertain and unnaturally heavy until he is rooted to the floor. Jack looks down. His feet are immersed in some sort of viscous black goo. He can see his breath in the air.

His attention snaps back to the eyes that now have a human figure to go with them. Before he can scream, the figure is flesh against him. Jack can feel arms around him. There are lips on his neck. He hardly notices he is falling until he is half-submerged in the black goo beneath. The figure bears down on him. He sinks. Jack cannot breathe until what he can only assume are lips find his mouth. Though he does not inhale, Jack's lungs fill with air. He starts to kiss the figure back. In that moment, he needs nothing else.

The ooze dissolves his clothing. The black seeps into Jack's pores, staining his skin and hair. It's a bridge. No, it's a bed. It's a bed dripping with black. Jack's fingers burrow into the muddy black back of the figure. They're the same color - comprised of the same slippery black muck. Jack feels, rather than sees. His heightened libido races through his veins. The figure starts to consume him in a way Jack cannot describe.

Jack awakens to the sound of his own lascivious moaning. His sheets are sticky. He sits up like a shot, covered in sweat. His hand flies to his lips, vacant and lonely. Engulfed by a sense of profound loss, he sighs wistfully. He was so comfortable – so taken with the seductive darkness. Jack has never been romanced, but he cannot help but equate the specter who visits in the night to what that might feel like.

He longs for this elusive, faceless figure. There is no denying it, even in his waking hours. Jack holds fast to this haunting phantom. It frightens and bewitches him. Is this figure… Adam?

_Cold and dark_, he recalls. He wonders what it means.

Jack glances at the clock. Morning. It is time to prepare for the World Championship Figure Skating Competition.

* * *

Adam is on his way back to his suite with a heavy heart when Pitch's chocolate voice swims into his ears. "Ah. Mr. Russell." Adam's eyes snap up, finding Black standing at the entrance to the hotel's classiest, low lighted bar. "Congratulations on Jack's victory. You must be so proud." Adam manages a wan, wary smile at Pitch Black, fearing what might follow. "Join me for a drink, won't you? You should celebrate," Pitch remarks, his thin lips easing into an oily smirk.

Adam eyes him skeptically. "Don't you-?"

Pitch raises his hand, palm turned out to politely stop him. "I understand your affections for the boy, Adam. Just as I understand his for you. This revelry runs too deep. It is an affair only the two of you can sever. I dare not stake a claim one can contest in such a potent manner. He would never truly be mine, not while you linger at the forefront of his mind."

Adam blinks, the shock at his invitation evident on his face. "You mean-?"

"Join me for a drink," Pitch repeats cordially. "We can discuss it then."

They sit side by side at the glossy red wood counter. The bartender fixes them their cocktails.

"What will you do now?" Pitch asks. "You're quite a coveted representative, being employed by not one, but two victorious Worlds contestants."

Adam thinks about it, having never before experienced the freedom to fantasize. "I don't know. Honestly… I might settle down. I might…" He swallows hard. Resolutely, "I might ask Jack to settle down _with_ me."

Pitch hums in response. "I thought you might say something of that nature." The bartender places the drinks in front of Pitch. Pitch passes Adam's rum and coke into his waiting palm. Pitch raises his own martini and toasts him gracefully. "Best of luck to you."

Adam is still so blindsided by the man's surrender that he toasts him back without a word. He raises the much-needed drink to his lips and takes a few deep swallows. They sit in silence for a brief moment until Pitch produces a slender green vial from his coat.

Adam's brows knit together. "What is that?"

"Antidote," Pitch says.

The word hangs in the air like the blade of a guillotine.

Pitch turns his head and fixes Adam in a bold, triumphant stare. The color gradually leaves Adam's face. He does not need to ask what it is for. Before he can snatch it out of Pitch's hand, the vial disappears in a wisp of black smoke. Adam promptly drops his drink. The commotion of the bar and the stark atmosphere prevents others from noticing.

Pitch continues. "It is waiting for you on a plane to Juno, Alaska. Your ticket has already been purchased. When you are at cruising altitude, one of the flight attendants will bring it to you." Adam chokes back a sob. "You are to tell Jack's unfortunate family that he perished in a tragic car accident, courtesy of a drunk driver. And then you will disappear… and never attempt to contact him, or myself, again. Funds are being wired to an account as we speak. You've done well for me, Adam Russell. I trust you will not botch this last assignment." Pitch levels him with a cold, diabolical smile. "You have two hours… before you become just another corpse for my collection."

* * *

Adam is engulfed in a blur of white and blue as Jack leaps into his arms. Adam catches him, too stupefied to push him away and too brokenhearted by the kiss that follows. He clutches him as tightly as he can with strong hands and promises he cannot keep. Jack is beyond his reach now.

Jack, oblivious, beams up at Adam with his big, bright blue eyes and his thousand watt smile.

"I won, Adam! Can you believe it?"

Adam's façade is breaking. "Of course I can. You're an excellent skater." He sets Jack on his feet. Adam turns away, keying open his room.

Behind him, "I couldn't have done it without your incessant nagging." Adam clenches his teeth and strides into his room. "Really. I owe you everything." Jack comes to the door. Adam can hear the confusion and dying excitement in his voice. "Well… It's after Worlds." His voice tappers off in a tenous laugh.

Adam knows precisely what that is supposed to remind him of. Everything aches. Adam drags his suitcase out from the closet, thrusts it onto the bed, and starts packing.

* * *

Adam is acting stranger than usual. Maybe he's just nervous. Grown men get nervous, right? Jack strides into his room, pivots, and plops down on the edge of the bed. "Moving into my room?" he asks blithely.

Adam hesitates as he reaches for his last pair of dress shoes. Hoarsely, "No Jack." He snatches them up and stuffs them into the bag. Jack watches him. He doesn't understand.

Jack frowns. "Moving to a different room?"

"No. I'm leaving."

Jack fidgets uncomfortably. "To another hotel?"

More forcefully, "No Jack. I'm leaving the city. I have… urgent business elsewhere."

His hopes are rekindled. "Oh. Well then I'll come with you!" Jack pops up and walks towards the door. After all, he has to pack. Adam's words freeze him in place.

"No. You won't."

Jack slowly turns to face him. He folds his arms, hoping it will calm the rolling of his stomach. "Then I'm waiting here?" he guesses, "Until you come back?"

"I'm not coming back."

Jack's expression bleeds out, his skin adopting an even paler tone than usual. He is too stunned to pay attention to what Adam is doing anymore. "What do you mean?"

"Did I stutter? I'm not coming back. And you're not coming with me."

Jack is floundering. Tears well in his eyes. "Did I do something wrong?" he asks, trying to seem more offended than crushed. Adam doesn't answer him. "Adam?"

"It's business," he replies gruffly.

Jack starts to panic. Tension turns his muscles to steel. "Adam, I don't know anyone here." Adam doesn't answer him. Jack, mortified and teary eyed, chokes on whatever he wants to say. He swallows hard. "Adam you can't. You can't just-"

"Jack, what you and I had was nothing more than your wild hormones and one too many drinks on my part. There was never any "after Worlds". There was never an "us" at the end of this thing."

"That's a lie. You don't mean that," Jack snaps back, hating how his voice cracks and his lip keeps quivering.

"I do. Now leave."

"Adam, I have _nowhere _to go!"

"Go back to your room."

"How am I supposed to live!? I don't even have enough money for a plane ticket home!""

Adam slips into his accent. As he stuffs his jeans into the bag, "Tha''s not my problem. You're seventeen. You'll fig'ya et out."

Jack is close to sobbing. "Oh my _god_," he realizes. "You're serious."

Adam meets his eyes from across the room for the first time that night. "Did you think I was jokin'? Are you really tha' stupid? You've been with me so long tha' ye can't think for ya'self now? I'm leavin'. You're on ya' own. I was 'ere to be your manage'ah'. I 'ave no other obligation to you."

Jack stands there a moment longer, suffocating under the heartache. He shakes his head, certain the pain in his chest will kill him. He turns on his heel and hurries out of the room. His vision swims in the hall, nearly colliding with an elderly couple on the way to their suite. Jack hurries past them. He fumbles for the card key. The crocodile tears make it impossible. He eventually sinks to the floor, fitting himself against the doorjam, and hugs his knees. He cries quietly.

The hallways is empty. Everyone else is too busy partying.

But for the life of him, Jack can't think of anything worth celebrating right now.


	8. Away

Author's Note: Ok guys.

I'm freaking out.

I just took on two full length ghost writing projects (both due in three months) and a long term substitute teacher position in the home stretch month of when they are due.

I'm _freaking_ out.

I am going to try my absolute best, my stay up all night and crank it out absolute best, to get updates to you for all stories. (Which is nothing new… because Pitch never lets me sleep too long with all the damned nightmares.)

Please bear with me though. I honestly didn't expect to get picked up like this.

Pray none of my other pending proposals are accepted. ._. Pitch has things to say too!

**The author is scared out of her mind. It's quite thrilling and makes my life absolutely delicious.**

**To all my fanatical giggling minions – carry on. My ego has quadrupled in the time it has taken you to read this. I may indeed have love for you yet. Or at the very least, tolerance.**

* * *

In the distance, Jack hears the colossal door to Adam's room swing open… and close – a damning sound that shakes him to his core, resonating like the final beat of a heart. His hands knot into his pants. He holds his breath, hoping and praying the man will come around the corner and profess… _something_. Anything!

As the moments drag on, and that faith disappears, Jack gives into despair unlike anything he has ever experienced. He shivers and quakes – the lack of sleep and stress amplifying the devastation. Adam doesn't need him, doesn't want him, doesn't_ love_ him… He does not notice the lights above him flicker on and off.

"Jack?" he hears.

The familiar tone makes him raise his watery eyes. Pierre, who stands at the end of the hall, balks when he sees the boy in tears. He hurries forward. In Jack's distress, he almost forgot about Pierre entirely. He doesn't have the heart to feel guilty for it either. And even now, as Pierre kneels, his wide blue eyes confused and searching, Jack has no idea what to tell him. Nothing rational justifies this. The broad man hovers there, looking as helpless as he probably feels. Jack figures Pierre hasn't the slightest inkling of what is going on. All he knows is that Jack won Worlds and now he's sitting in some corner, sobbing like a child. Jack knows he must look ridiculous. The mere idea of this sort of behavior would have repulsed him only a week ago.

"I ran into Adam on the way up to look for you. What happened? What's going on?"

Jack's lip starts quivering again. He averts his eyes. Jack is surprised by the tenderness in Pierre's worn hands when the man cups his face and gently turns it towards him. They meet eyes. Jack disintegrates. He shifts enough to crumble against Pierre's chest, his hands taking feeble purchase in another of his hideous argyle sweaters. Pierre hesitates. He gradually engulfs Jack in his arms.

"I don't want it," Jack croaks. "I don't want it without him."

Pierre sounds perplexed. "You don't want what, kiddo?"

"The Worlds. I don't –" He can't finish. Pierre keeps Jack close while he fetches his key card from the floor. Pierre reaches up and inserts the card into the slot, unlocking the room. He hoists Jack to his feet and practically carries him inside. He takes Jack into his bedroom and sits him down at the foot of his bed. Pierre kneels before him.

Jack doesn't know how to react when he glances up and sees tears in Pierre's eyes. Pierre sandwiches Jack's hands between his own, dwarfing them. "I'm going to go get him. Ok? He's probably just getting cold feet."

Jack frowns, his jaw tight. "… You know?" he asks, wiping his cheeks in vain.

He nods gravely. "I understood the night we saw Black Swan. I saw it in the both of you."

"… In him too?" Jack squeaks. He feels utterly pathetic.

"Yes Jack. In him too."

"Then why would he say that? Why would he leave? Why—" Fresh tears spring to his eyes. Pierre gets to his feet and stoops over to comb his hand through Jack's ash blonde hair. He also presses a kiss to his forehead.

"Don't you move, boyo. I'm going to talk some sense into him."

Jack manages a strangled smile in return. The sympathy and sincerity in Pierre's big blue eyes only drives the knife deeper. There is too much pity in his face. Pierre knows… He _knows_ Adam is never coming back.

"You stay right here. Ok? Right here." Jack just nods, abruptly assaulted by the crippling urge to vomit. Pierre gingerly touches his cheek, turns on his heel, and leaves him. Jack can hear the heavy falls of his hefty feet as he jogs down the hallway. The door to his room bangs shut, rocking the landscape on the entry wall. Jack collapses back into bed and sinks into the sheets. He turns on his side and smothers his face into the pillow. The emotional upheaval has frayed every nerve ending and crushed every sensible thought. He screams into the comfortless cloud, the sound muffled and largely silent in the vacuum of pain. The lights in his room flicker on and off. Jack, buried in the pillow, does not notice.

* * *

The questions slither into his thoughts – serpents asking in the most fetid tongue what is wrong with himself, asking why Adam would do this, asking if it is somehow his fault… They caress. They wish away. They soothe.

And then comes a strange, corrosive, perfidious surge. It creeps into his heart, which soaks it up eagerly. Saturated. Seeping. Black.

An organ dripping with black.

Adam lied to him.

Adam betrayed him.

Adam… _used_ him.

Adam never had any true feelings for Jack.

_Teenage hormones and too many drinks._

Adam got what he wanted, and made off scott-free. Adam would never love him. And no one ever will.

_Teenage hormones and too many drinks._

Only one could... Maybe…

_Cold and dark._

Only one will ever…

Jack awakens. The lights flicker again. He sits up in bed cautiously. His eyes and cheeks and blotchy and pink. His throat aches. He glances at the clock. It's midnight. He must have cried himself to sleep.

_Midnight._ Jack scrambles to find his phone. He discovers no new messages, missed calls, or voice mails. He cannot curb the craving anymore. He thumbs through his contacts until he finds Adam's number. His finger hovers just over the "send" button. And then, to his horror, his contact list begins to disappear. The names scroll by and vanish, faster and faster until only a blank screen remains. His phone has been wiped clean… like a beach after the tide. Jack dials Pierre's number in a panic, which he knows from memory. He blanches when he puts the receiver to his ear and all he hears… is a flat tone and static.

His phone service has been disbanded.

And more dreadful still, Jack can see his breath in the air.

_Cold and dark._

Jack leaps out of bed, careens around the corner, and dashes headlong to the door of his suite. He tries the stainless steel handle in anxious jerks. It is locked… from the outside. But this is impossible. It must be stuck. Just stuck!

He pulls and shakes, rattling the sturdy rampart with all his might. Nothing comes of it. Confused and frightened, he whirls around in search of something to help. But he finds something else.

Jack stands rigid when he notices that a black mist is snaking out from under his bed. Paralyzed with fear, he watches the smoky tendrils comb the floor.

_Cold and dark._

"Help," he whispers. To his terror, he realizes that he cried himself hoarse… and has nearly lost his voice. The lights flicker again and then shut off completely. "I'm dreaming," he whispers in the dark. "I have to be. This isn't real. It's not real. It's just like the others. It's-"

Two amber eyes open from the opposite end of the room and leer at him. In the harrowing palpable realm of reality, Jack realizes… that he recognizes those eyes.

"You," he whispers.

"Me," replies the phantom.

"From the locker room."

"Is that all?" it asks. A chocolate voice.

Jack slowly shakes his head, bracing the breadth of his back against the door. "… No. Every night since… when I sleep."

"You've dreamt of me," it finishes. "How quaint."

"You're real. You're really real… Who are you?" he trembles.

"I told you," it pacifies. "Over and over, I told you precisely who I am. And in your secret heart, you already know. In the bleakest hours of the morning, when I had you writhing in pleasure, you knew. Cold and dark, my Jack _Frost_."

The sobering truth hits him head on. With bated breath, "Frost… and Black."

Viciously, "Do you really think you would have won that little tournament… if it wasn't for my influence?"

Jack swallows hard. "What do you mean?"

"As I said: You're no natural talent. I selected you to win. And now you have."

"You never had faith in me," he accuses. "Adam did." The eyes draw nearer. Jack can just barely make out the shape of a lofty body in the dark.

"On the contrary. Your skills are quite real. Your routines are impressive. I merely know the value of hard work – of something _earned_. I did not throw my trust to the looms of fate – into the tenuous, incapable hands of something I cannot see. I knew. I _believed_ in you, Jack."

"No…" he tries.

"It's always been me. Your trifles with Russell, while entertaining, were merely you acting upon the only impulse within reach. The desire, the passion, the daydreams… They were never about Adam."

"No," Jack defends with gumption. Quickly, "I love him." He immediately regrets it. It's… not true. He is confused. His feelings are not the same as before.

"Do you?" Black taunts.

Jack's brows knit together. He sidles into the corner and presses himself into the crease. "I… I don't… I don't know, I—" But the nightmare is not deterred.

"And where is he now?" Pitch presses. "Gone. Gone like the sun, gone like the moon. It is you and I, alone in the dark. If you recall, it was not him you hoped to have abed… was it? My visits gave you but a taste of the decadence I possess. I see your mind. There is nothing for you beyond this room. Adam could never satisfy you. Not now."

Jack's resolve is shaken. He stands on the precipice of utter ruin. "What have you done to me?" The eyes are so close. Jack stares up into them.

"Opened your eyes, or closed them, if you prefer. Mine is a dark world. _Ours _is a dark world. It is the world you belong in." Jack recalls well that the sunless months in Alaska, the months they never saw daylight, were his happiest. "I will never leave you, Jack." Yet, this admission is not kind. Rather, it is fraught with dubious intent and laced with arsenic. Jack goes rigid when a hand curls around his throat. Jack seizes his wrist, as if it will help. While harmless now, a clawed thumb digs into the fleshy gap between his jaw, forcing his chin up. Jack cannot look away from the menacing golden eyes. "No matter how strident your determination, or ruthless your desire, you will never escape. You will always return to me," he promises. Velvet chains…

Jack shivers. "I'm scared."

"Are you?" The hand loosens its iron grip. The eyes soften. "Are you really?"

Confusedly, "I don't know. I was… a moment ago."

Sympathetically, "You have lived a rigid life. It is natural to fear what you think is unknown. I offer you freedom," he poses.

Jack cannot tell if the sentiment is true or contrived. He shakes his head as much as the grip lets him. "You offer me a cage," he laments.

"Precisely," Black answers. "I offer you the same direction, the same guidance, and the same control that you cannot imagine living without. As independent and tenacious as you wish you were, something born a lilac cannot become a rose. You cannot change. And I would never ask it of you. I want you like this – distraught, destitute, and vulnerable. Embrace all your darkest fantasies. Delight in them."

"What are you?" Jack whispers, melting.

Through a diabolical grin,"I am the Nightmare King, my foolish frost fairy. And I am not of this world."

"... Where will you take me?" Jack asks, transfixed.

"_Away_."


	9. Outside

There are some seriously fantastic Black Ice drawings out there... js.

Another word from Pitch.

**This next part gets quite graphic in absolutely every sense. The author has been unable to write her own material for quite some time…and thus exacted vengeance upon this chapter. It does involve non-con. **

Hollywood Undead recently released their new album. The title references one of their tracks. So sadz. :/

* * *

Jack swallows, nearly asphyxiated by the subsequent urge to follow unreservedly to wherever this phantom may lead. Only one question lingers in his mind. Curiosity wins out in the end. "I want to see your face before we go. Can I?"

Black's hand releases his throat. The golden eyes narrow sharply. "You've seen it."

Carefully, "Not like this. Y-," he stutters, "You're different. I can tell."

The eyes adopt a jaded look, numb and unmoved by the request. "If it is light you require, I'm afraid I cannot help you with that, nor do I care to."

Jack gets a spate of courage. It flares up and promptly dwindles afterwards. "If you can turn them off, you can turn them on," he insists. His reasoning is logical.

"Fine," Pitch snaps back with a ferocity that makes Jack shrink inward. "Look upon your tormentor and despair, boy."

The lamp situated on an end table in the sitting area gradually comes to life.

Pitch Black stands before him. Jack can see the identical resemblance to the man he has come to know, albeit small inconsistencies. His skin, for example, is grey. It is not a dark grey. It is as if his Caucasian flesh was put into a black and white film and never regained its original hue. This throws the yellow in his eyes into sharp contrast. He wears a fitted black cloak – collared and closed at the navel. It reveals a long titillating sliver of his bare chest. Jack's eyes travel downward. The cloak opens just above the crotch and dovetails around his legs and behind him. He wears fitted trousers of a matching shade. They serve doubly as pants and boots.

While Jack examines Pitch, Pitch takes inventory of the boy – namely the subtle signs of his recent grief: the red in his eyes, the flush in his face, and the lingering gloom on his customarily cheerful demeanor. Pitch takes a silent oath that Jack will never discover the circumstances of Adam's disappearance.

Because… as of this moment… Pitch is not entirely certain Jack would stay with him, should he know the truth and were given the choice.

Jack reaches out carefully. He hesitates when Pitch's eyes cut to daggers. Jack tries to look as harmless as possible, which is far too easy considering his already affable appearance. Pitch humors him because to him, it is humorous. Jack takes Pitch by the wrist and brings his arm about to examine his hand. His long fingers are tipped with black nails, like claws. Jack's hands, in comparison, are decidedly smaller and less fearsome. They are fairly strong and calloused though, due to his many falls on the ice through the years. Jack chances a glance up into his face. Pitch is watching with a mix of distain and uncertainty.

He is everything Jack envisioned. He is beautiful and menacing, like a dark angel or a blessed demon.

"You left them for me," Jack realizes quietly. "The chocolates. That was you."

Pitch assumes a smug smirk. "Bait, if you will."

"Well it worked," he mutters through a growing smile. Jack's attention strays to Pitch's hand again, tracing his palm and toying with his fingers. "I'll do pretty much anything for that stuff." Jack swallows thickly. He can feel heat in his cheeks. "So… all that… All those urges…"

"Subconscious, of course," Pitch dismisses. "You were uncommonly easy to manipulate." With a predatory grin and a flicker in his eyes, "You don't enjoy yourself nearly enough."

Jack subtly rolls his eyes. Tentatively, "I should be mad at you for that – for scaring the shit out of me… for fucking with my mind."

Wryly, "The vulgar language, however, is none of my doing."

Jack chuckles. Pitch lifts his unoccupied hand and fits a claw beneath Jack's chin, guiding it up. They meet eyes. Pitch keeps his expression carefully anesthetized – a skill Jack has yet to master. Meanwhile, Jack stares, starry eyed. Pitch ever imagined Jack would regard him this way. Pitch is accustomed to a great many reactions, the majority of them averse. He expected Jack to shy away, even rescind his offer (though Pitch would take him regardless). Something peculiar stirs inside of him.

"I don't think I'm scared anymore," Jack tells him. "I wanted you to be real. Somehow, I knew you were."

Pitch wavers. This affectionate dialogue feels strange. No, it feels filthy.

Repulsed, Pitch flits his hand through the air and extinguishes the troublesome lamp light. Jack is promptly yanked off his feet by a tendril of sand and dragged across the miniature den, through the kitchenette, under the bed, and into the dark. Pitch disappears in a cyclone of smog.

* * *

Jack rouses in cavern of great magnitude, indeterminable in height and width. Cages hang from the abyss above, suspended in darkness. He has seen this place before. "Pitch?" Jack asks the emptiness. His voice echoes back to him. He searches, but finds nothing. Jack proceeds into the sanctum, crossing a bridge and descending a stone staircase. This world is illuminated by a dark light – one originating from some abominable blend of the two. He passes into a room. At the far end is another cage.

Jack approaches.

The closer he comes, the more he can see that the cage ahead is not empty like the others.

The occupant, however, is no longer alive.

Jack stands several paces away, wintry fixed upon the mangled corpse whose arm dangles between the bars. The flesh has faded, leaving bones and scraps of clothing behind. Fear finds him quickly. Jack, horrified, is frozen when he feels an arm snake around him and a hand against his throat.

"An unfortunate accident," Pitch claims against the shell of his ear. However, he uses a tone that is not completely convincing.

Hoarsely, "Who was he?"

"Someone non-compatible," Pitch answers while his hand blazes a trail down over Jack's hip and thigh.

"You did that?" Jack manages. He can feel Pitch smiling.

"I can do much worse. But not to you," he assures, as if the remark is supposed to be comforting.

Jack's senses rush back to him when he hears banging and muttering coming from behind a door to the right. "What is that?" Jack whispers.

Pitch grins, gradually untangling himself from Jack. "A gift." Jack regards him suspiciously. Pitch gestures towards the door with a shallow bow and an open palm. Jack ventures forward. The muttering grows louder and the banging more desperate. Jack raises his hand. It hovers just above the knob. He steels himself and yanks it open.

"Pierre?!" Jack exclaims. They meet eyes. Recognition and relief flashes through Pierre's frightened gaze. Jack's former skating coach is bound at the wrists and ankles and gagged by inky black ropes. Jack hurries to him. He kneels and tries to untie him. His hands, however, pass right through the restraints. "What is the meaning of this?" Jack gasps, wheeling on Pitch.

"I told you. A gift."

"Release him!" Jack pleads.

Pitch resumes his mirthless demeanor. Dryly, "How very ungrateful of you."

Jack shakes his head as his brows knit together. "Why would I want this? Why would I_ ever_ want this?"

Pitch suddenly leans forward, causing Jack to bend back. "Because he dictated your life. Now you can return the favor." With a predatory grin, "He's yours."

"_Mine_?" Jack balks. He still doesn't understand.

"Yes," Pitch replies as he rights himself, returning to his daunting height. "To control. To govern. I offer you the power over a life. Savor it." Pitch taps his thin lips thoughtfully. "Of course, if you really _don't_ want him," he says offhand, "I am positive I can find another use-"

"No!" Jack exclaims. He suddenly realizes that Pierre's life hangs in the balance. "No… I'll have him." Quickly, "Thank you." Jack feels compelled to show gratitude, or at least say the words. He glances over his shoulder at the man on the floor. "I – I want to talk to him." However, this is going to be a challenge with the gag in place.

Pitch waves his hand as he pivots towards the doorway. As he departs, "His bindings now answer to you. What you will, will be." Soon, all that is left of him is an echoing chuckle and fading footsteps.

Jack's attention volleys back to Pierre. He kneels with him and helps the man up on his knees. Jack considers his options for the moment, unclear about precisely how he goes about releasing him. He lifts his hand, but before his fingers can touch the rope, it vanishes. Wisps of smoke waft into the air. "Pierre," Jack sighs.

"Jack," the man says gratefully. His brows knit together. "What is this? What's going on?"

"I don't know. I—" Jack hesitates, struggling with how to explain the enigma that is their captor. "Pitch is… something else."

"Pitch? Pitch Black, the judge?"

"Yes." Jack stares at his knees, leafing through memories of Pitch like pages of a book. "He is something that I cannot explain. Something evil. Something _amazing_."

Pierre does not like the sound of this at all. He eyes Jack incredulously, as though he hardly recognizes him. "Why are you here?"

"He came to me." Jack gradually meets his eyes. "He came to me in the night, for several nights actually. I saw him in my dreams."

Pierre narrows his eyes suspiciously. He starts to shake his head. "Jack you're talking nonsense."

"Don't I know it," the boy acknowledges. He assumes a wry, lopsided smirk. "But I'm not the one all tressed up…"

"What has he done to you? Hurt you? Bewitched you?"

"Oh, no," Jack insists, calling sincerity into his wintry blues. "He has done nothing. He has… He has freed me, if anything. I can't explain it. I just want to be with him."

Pierre is plainly horrified. "Be with – That's madness! What about Adam?"

Jack's expression mellows out. He averts his eyes. The wound of Adam's desertion seems like a distant memory, an old wound, but it still bleeds. "Adam left me. I think…" He blinks. "I think it's Pitch I've wanted all along."

Pierre tries to catch Jack's eyes, churning his wrists behind him, struggling to get free. "Have you seen that lunatic in the light?"

Jack recalls the sight of Pitch's true self. With distracted smile, he whispers, "Yes."

Pierre stops struggling against the shackles. "Jack." His eyes grow sad. His shoulders sag as he hangs his head. "Jack, don't."

"Don't what?" Jack says, facing him once more.

Hesitantly, "Don't go with him."

Jack tilts his head. "Why not?"

"Because I…" He sets his jaw. Lowly, "It's always been you."

Jack watches him, immobile, trying not to anticipate what he will say next. "What has?"

Pierre shuts his eyes tight. "I've wanted you." He opens them and locks stares with Jack._ "I _want you," he emphasizes. "Don't go with him."

Jack is unsure how to interpret this. His eyes start to widen. "What are you talking about?"

Pierre tries to explain himself. "Adam left. I thought… I thought that meant we could finally… I want to be with you." He moves a little closer. "You're afraid. I understand that. But I can take care of you. I can protect you. You know I can. I've looked after you for so long." His wondrous blues are once again pregnant with conviction. "Don't choose that nightmare over me. I can understand Adam. I can. He's younger, sophisticated… Australian. But not him."

Jack searches the man's face. His jaw works as if he means to speak. Nothing comes out for some time. If he thought the age different between himself and Adam was scandalous, the difference here is a crime. Pierre is handsome, in a distinguished sort of way, but Jack has never… The man practically raised him. Jack finds his feet. He turns away and retreats just out of reach. He is conflicted. He never thought he would have to choose between Pitch, his perfect nightmare, and Pierre, a fiercely loyal protector. But has he not already made it? When he agreed to come to this place? With his back turned, Jack does not see the inky mist waft up to Pierre's nose or the subsequent flash in his eyes after the man inhales it, unawares. Jack wrings his hands. "Pierre, I had no idea." He faces him. "I don't-"

Pierre wilts, but he maintains his composure. Such is the difference between youth and maturity. Pierre takes it in stride. "Please. Say no more. That is enough. If this is real, I have a feeling I won't leave here alive. And that's not the last thing I want to hear. I just needed to come clean to you."

Jack shakes his head in earnest. He hurries to Pierre, urgently expressing a truth he hopes will soothe him. "That's up to _me_. Whether you live is up to me. Not him. I can convince him to let me let you go! I can—" Pierre's lips suddenly find his and he is silenced.

The sand chains disintegrate, but not by Jack's doing.

Pierre's massive arms are free to rope him in and pull him close. Jack is surprised, not only by the act, but by the strength behind it. He tenses. His eyes flutter open. Pierre tightens his grip, bringing their crotches together. The man's hand clamps down on the seat of his pants. Jack flushes darkly, seizing Pierre's wrist in shock. He tugs a little, just to tell the man that his hand needs to be higher. Pierre only squeezes tighter. Jack pulls with more gumption, switching from a mere reminder to actually trying to pry the man's hand away. It doesn't budge. Jack's eyes widen, furrowing his brows. He utters a muffled,_ uhhmm-?!_ Against Pierre's lips. He plants his other hand on Pierre's chest. He makes to push… no… _shove_ him away. Instead, Pierre drags him up on his thigh. Jack is mortified when the man's other hand glides under the hem of his pants. His fingertips dig into the bare flesh of his ass with bruising force. Jack starts to struggle against him, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. His thigh grinds against Pierre's crotch and the prominent erection under his clothing. The man emits a primal groan.

Jack slams his hand against Pierre's chest. He curls his fingers and knocks his fist against the same spot, harder. The man's hand dips into the seam of his ass, moves his scant dancewear aside, and traces his thick finger around the rim of his entrance. More muffled shouts vibrate in Jack's throat. He starts to thrash, beating his fist against Pierre's chest while his other hand still pulls desperately at his hand. The finger starts rubbing, massaging, and probing. Horror coupled with despair fills Jack's eyes.

The more Jack tries to talk into the kiss, the more the words sound like moans. The more Jack tries to worm away, the higher Pierre's desire escalates.

Pierre inserts a finger and moans in approval. Jack starts screaming against his lips. Pierre throws him down on the floor, clamps a hand over his mouth, and drags his pants down. Jack's hands scramble to stop him. With his elbow locked like it is, Jack can't reach his face for a punch. Pierre forges his way between his thighs.

"Sh-" Pierre soothes viciously. He bears his teeth in a grin. "I can take care of you. I'll show you. I'll make you see." Pierre's ominous form blurs as tears spring to Jack's eyes. Jack, who has nearly screamed himself hoarse, writhes and thrashes for freedom beneath him. The muscles across his body, as well as the ropes in his neck, grow taut. He wants to close his legs, but Pierre's hips are in the way. Jack watches in terror as the man reaches down and frees his cock.

"Look at me," Pierre says. "Jack, look at me." Jack meets his eyes, searching desperately for some shade of mercy. "I want to see it. I want to see it all." Pierre sucks on two of his fingers before the hand disappears. They slide into him. The puckered cavern tenses against the intrusion and Jack's cheeks color in a hard flush. Pierre twists and curls his fingers. Jack whimpers under his hand. When he is satisfied, he removes them with a pop. With that, the man seizes his knee, brings it up, and shoves inside. Agony floods Jack's eyes at the searing pain.

He screams against the man's hand. Jack slams his strong fists against Pierre's arm. The man is clearly tired of the struggling. Now that he is buried in him, Pierre drops Jack's knee and manages to swallow up both of his wrists in one hand. He pins them above the boy's head.

* * *

Pitch abides in another part of his lair, occupying himself by hatching schemes and threading a coin through his fingers. He knows full well what is happening in the hermetic cell at present. And it kills two birds with one stone.

It obliterates Jack's love for and trust in Pierre and absolves him of his virginity. Pitch does not particularly care for virgins. Namely, he does not care for a virgin who already affects him like Jack does. (The conversation they shared before arriving was unsettling to say the least.) It's a slippery slope; one Pitch has no intention of venturing out upon. The solution presented itself when Pitch was on his way up in the elevator to collect the spoils of his conquest.

Let Pierre break Jack. Pitch will collect and reassemble the pieces.

* * *

Stretched and stuffed with the engorged organ, Jack realizes that there is no escape. Jack stops thrashing. He cannot call for help. If Pitch saw him like this… would he lose interest? Think him spoiled? Pierre starts rutting into him and furthering his thought is impossible. As well endowed as Adam was, Jack can tell that Pierre's is meatier, but roughly the same length. Pierre jackhammers into him, striking spots Jack is only recently acquainted with. He is reacting in spite of himself.

His toes curl. This time, the sound muffled by Pierre's hand _is_ a moan. An orgasm rips through him. Streams of cum jet over his shirt and Pierre's arm. And with Pierre pummeling him from the inside, it lasts. Seconds later, he feels a white hot heat erupt inside of him as Pierre unloads. Pierre rides it through, sloshing it around. Pierre's hand shifts enough to dip his broad thumb between Jack's lips, pushing it in until the catch. Even with his mouth basically uncovered, Jack has nothing to say anymore. He wears a weary, defeated expression.

"You see?" Pierre asks. "I knew you wanted me. It was only a matter of getting it out of you." Tears spring to Jack's eyes. Refusing to let them fall, his brow furrows and he looks away. Pierre releases him and removes himself. Jack can feel liquid heat leaking out of him. He lays there for a moment, splayed out on the rock floor, before he rolls onto his side and sits up. Meanwhile, Pierre uses Jack's pants to towel his cock off.

... Did he want it? Did... did he always want it? Is he really this big of a slut? Pierre tosses Jack his pants. Jack pulls them back on. He goes to stand and is nearly unable to do so. Suddenly, the inky black bindings restrain Pierre's wrists and ankles again, cock out and all. Pierre blinks. Jack watches him flatly. Pierre's eyes dart around the room and finally land on Jack.

"Jack," he says, looking oddly mortified. He notices the drying stains on Jack's clothing and the vacant look in his eyes. The cell door yawns open.

"Are you through?" Pitch asks Jack dryly, not even gracing Pierre with a glance. Jack can only hang his head and nod. He turns to leave.

"Jack!" Pierre calls in horror at what he has done. "I would never! You know I would never! Jack, I'm sorry! I'm so s—!" With one glare from Pitch, Pierre is gagged again. The man struggles and hollers. Pitch steers Jack out of the cell and closes the door.

"So," Pitch prompts, his long digits joined in a diamond as they meander through the caves. "What is your verdict?"

Jack stares blankly into the shadows – battling the desire to wrap himself up in the dark and wither away. Things have become so distorted, rearranged, and cold. Stationary. Glacial. Grotesque. The bleakest corners of his mind are the only ones illuminated, and within reach. Numbly, "Kill 'im."


	10. Unforgivable

One. I officially get paid to write erotica.

Two. I have a new perverse fascination: Thor/Steve

Three. Every single effing one of you needs to read Grace for Cheap under my favs. Even Pitch likes that story. He squeals like a fangirl. Not as loud as me though.

* * *

Jack is an empty husk when Pitch smokes them out of the black chasm and into a house.

Pitch's dark lair is located directly beneath his suburban estate. Without the guise of magic, the house is a surface extension, a marker, of the wicked underworld. This place is suspended in a world between the worlds – a dimension without time, connected to past, present, and future by a spidering series of silken threads of fate.

Jack is only half aware of what Pitch is doing as the man shows him through the corridor and up the stairs. He guides him into a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom, awash in the cold moon and starlight. Here, he can freshen up and rest. Pitch mentions that there is a change of clothing on the dresser. All too suddenly, and after an eternity of waiting, Pitch vanishes.

The silence is palpable. Jack can hear only the shallow beat of his heart: a crooked organ floating just outside of the cage that is his chest.

He can make no sense of his current state. His sense of self is a distant dream. The haunting question of whether he did indeed want it offers no respite in its maddening persistence. After all, according to Pitch, the bindings answered to Jack's command. Jack must have told them to release Pierre.

He must have.

Jack cannot bring himself to look in the mirror as he enters the bathroom and disrobes. He makes a point to ignore the cum stains on his clothing. Jack stops up the sink, fills it with hot water, and leaves the garments to soak. The deluge of shower water is a shock to his system. He does not wait for it to warm up. His anger and shame root him in place. The temperature rises. Jack puts his body on autopilot, moving in a fugue through the shower routine.

Bruises are budding on his wrists. During the rare times that Jack moves his jaw, he can feel the same violent kisses around his mouth.

His world is shrinking, pressing in on him from all sides. The weight of living is nearly heavier than his legs can withstand. He locks his knees and rinses his hair out.

Jack's thighs are spotted with bruises. His soul is checkered with shame.

Adam's promise. Adam's bed. Adam's lips. Adam's tongue. Adam's fingers. Adam's hands.

None of them are real. Because they're actually Pierre's hands. Because there was no after Worlds. It's just teenage hormones and too many drinks. It's proof and thievery and betrayal. It's just empty words and a sore throat. It's blood and pain. It's publicity and scandal. Adam's job. Pierre's duty.

Jack is a tool. He's an instrument. He's an item – a possession – a dispensable doll – an expendable asset.

Once. Once is all that is required. A series of "once". Once a winner. Once a virgin. Once valuable. Once in love. Once upon a time. And once that is gone, it can never be again.

Jack shuts the faucet lever. He towels off. He goes to the bureau where a neatly folded stack of clothing waits for him. Jack opens the top garment. He stares numbly at his favorite hoodie, colored in blue and silver. He dresses. Under the sweatshirt, there is a pair of silky athletic pants. He recognizes those too. But under the pants, he discovers an unfamiliar ring. It camouflages so well with the dresser that he almost does not notice it.

Jack picks up the barely distinguishable trinket and turns it over in his fingers. It is light and glossy – a charcoal grey mired with black cracks. Jack figures it was left here by mistake.

Though it makes no logical sense, Jack starts trying the ring on each of his fingers. As fate would have it, the only finger it fits on is his ring finger of his left hand. He admires it blankly. There is nothing especially remarkable about the ring, but he decides to leave it on none the less. The idea that it might be Pitch's makes wearing it comforting: an almost victorious feeling. It is the only shred of power that he can cling to.

Jack crosses to the bed. He lays down on top of the linens, finding the chill of the open air a welcome alternative to the cocoon of covers.

Sleep comes easy, but it is anything but peaceful. After an hour of darkness…

_The pond outside their house has frozen over again. _

_Jack, seven at the time, teeters on the strange new contraptions like a newborn horse not yet found its feet. His knees are knocking as he tries to balance on the skates. He is losing his balance. His arms pinwheel. When he falls, two broad hands catch him just under the arms. A younger Pierre chuckles. Jack tilts his head back to look up into his face. Pierre's big blue eyes are smiling. Pierre stands Jack back up. He gives him a gentle push. Little Jack, hands out and fingers splayed, glides out onto the ice with his knees locked and his eyes wide. He waits for a fall that never happens. _

Jack's brow creases sadly. He shifts, swallowing to alleviate the tightness in his throat.

_Little Jack slides to a stop in the heart of the rink. Jack chances a timid smile back at Pierre, who claps. Pierre cups his hands around his mouth. He is saying something, but it is muffled by the crunching sound of cracking ice. Jack looks down just in time to see the frozen surface give way. He plunges into the water. _

Jack fists a handful of sheets. He turns his face just slightly, enough to press his nose against the coverlet as his emotion fights the sleeping memory.

_A hand fishes for him. It seizes his hoodie and yanks him out. When Jack emerges, he is grown. He stares, shivering, into Adam's face. They aren't on the rink anymore. They're in a hotel room. Jack stands dripping wet in the kitchen and there is a glass bottle in Adam's hand. Adam is saying something, but all Jack can hear is the hammering of his heart. _

Jack's expression becomes tense and apprehensive. His lip quivers.

And the black fissures in the wooden ring begin to glow an electric blue.

_The man advances. Jack retreats. Adam backs him into the bedroom, directly into the broad wall of an older Pierre's body. Jack looks up at him warily. Pierre wears a sinister expression. Jack tears his attention to Adam. There is evil in their eyes. _

Jack sets his jaw, gritting his teeth. He knows, somewhere in the bleak watches of his mind, what is in store for him.

_Pierre drags Jack against his chest and clamps a hand around his mouth. Jack starts screaming. Adam swigs from the bottle. Another hand is roughly unfastening his pants, ripping him out of his sopping wet clothing. Adam swigs from the bottle. _

The sheets absorb the tears the roll down the bridge of his nose. Jack shifts onto his stomach, whimpering as he buries his face in the pillow. Jack puts his hand flat against the headboard, pushing against an invisible enemy, or perhaps reaching for help. Presently in unimaginable pain, his heart splinters and shatters into thousands of needle pointed shards.

_Jack is on the floor. Pierre is embedded to the knot. Adam swigs from the bottle. And they're both laughing. _

Jack is weeping unreservedly at this point, voice and body wracked with unintelligible screams and sobs. His anger and hurt transcend his shame. He cannot block it out, not in sleep. He sees it. The reel loops relentlessly, distorted by the nightmare and more violent with each echo.

Meanwhile, the ring glows radiantly. His veins, like the fissures in the wood, begin to glow just under the skin. The blue light swarms towards the ring, as though it is syphoning life from Jack himself. The more it takes, the brighter it becomes.

_How could they? How could they? Why? Why! ? _

There is a burst of vibrant, luminous, cold light.

Ice crystals quickly bloom out from Jack's hand, mapping the headboard in flowering swirls. It climbs the headboard. It combs over the walls. It blossoms on the window pane. Soon, it garnishes the entire room. Wisps of heat snake up from Jack's body in an otherwise glacial cold.

* * *

Pitch enters Pierre's cell, disbanding the gag with a flutter of his hand. "Where's Jack?" Pierre demands. He would leap to his feet if he could.

Pitch diamonds his fingers. "I couldn't very well have him witness your execution, now could I?"

"What?" Pierre whispers hoarsely.

Pitch all but clucks at him. "You apparently did something brutally unforgivable. What could that be, I wonder?" A malevolent smile flanks the words.

"It wasn't me!"

"Wasn't it? Was it not your body ravishing him? Stifling his screams? Stealing his virtue?" he baits.

"I didn't – I never…"

"You're right of course."

"What did you say?"

"You're right. You'd never have the nerve. Which is why I provided a little help." As delightful as it would be to have Pierre die thinking he is to blame, it is more delicious to assume part of the mantle of blame. Besides, should Pierre die under such accusations, he would feel a sense of justice and rightful penance about the whole thing.

Pierre assumes a furious expression. "You did this! You—!"

"Correct. That is not to say, however, that you had absolutely no desire to do what you did. My sands merely amplify what exists, be it fear or fancy. It enhances that still, small voice in the back of your head."

"I would never do that to him!"

"No? You've never fantasized about it? Pictured him writhing beneath you? Envisioned his naked body defenseless and ripe for the taking? Imagined his lips on your-"

Pierre averts his eyes. "Stop."

"I've seen your mind, Claus. I know every _nasty _little fantasy."

"Stop it." Pierre shakes his head.

"Shall I call him back down to slake your lust? Perhaps it would be more pleasant if he was willing. I can grant you that. I can make him puddy in your hands, a slave to your will, if you so desire."

"Stop!"

"I've done it before."

Pierre chances a glance up at his captor. "… What?"

"You know of Adam and Jack's tryst. Shall I tell you how that came to be? How I would visit him in the night and molest him in all the right ways until his body became obsessed? How he went to Adam's doorstep and begged the man to bed him? Repeatedly? How Adam, so noble and profession-conscious, denied him the full experience, but was more than willing to let Jack's mouth do the work? How, when you called him that following morning, Adam's ache was buried to the hilt in Jack's throat?"

"Stop it!" Pierre hollers, squeezing his eyes shut.

"The jealousy radiates from you. Delicious. Does it bother you that much? Knowing Jack was so servile to another younger man, and fought you to the bitter end?"

"It was not me!" he insists brokenly.

"No. But you've envisioned scenarios far worse. Haven't you?"

Pierre shrinks shamefully inward. "Please… stop."

"The ropes. The gag. The chains in your basement? Your hands around his throat. The gun in the second drawer of your nightstand? Just think what that barrel could do to—"

"STOP IT," he roars.

"Temper temper. I seem to have struck a nerve."

"Just kill me."

"Oh no. I can't do that. You see, I still have plans for you. But I will let Jack believe whatever he wants. Jack does not know that I know, let alone had any part in it. Your betrayal is not yet complete. I know Jack's heart. And he will come to you again… to ask _why_. He will want to make amends with the only connection he has to his former life. His teacher. His mentor. His oldest friend. And if I don't let him do so, and fail, he will not break. Not entirely. Once you have crushed his spirit, then you will die. But it will not be by _my_ hand. Oh no. Not at all."

"You sick demon. You sadistic bastard!" His curses are lost to the telling in the darkness of the chasm as Pitch takes his leave.


	11. Every Man's Gatorade

DON'T YELL AT ME. lol Ahem. Yes. I LIVE. Just barely. ha...

My newest love is Sebastian by Anne Bishop. Pitch is just as equally fascinated by the Black Jewels Trilogy. (and I think he has it bad for Daemon.)

Newest installment. It will be difficult to read. Next one should be longer. You have been warned. Love to all.

* * *

The days pass. Jack remains secluded for the majority of them, trying to garner the courage to confront Pierre a second time. Pitch visits. The Nightmare King can practically see Jack turning cold. The animosity could become an entity at any time.

Jack stands at the window of his bedroom, overlooking the grounds. The sky is overcast with blossoming clouds and the promise of snow. Pitch stands in the doorway, watching.

The ash blond has yet to remove the ring, carved and crafted from the enchanted wood of a certain sprite's staff. The sight calls a sick smile to his face. The ice was gone by the time he awoke, but Jack does suspect that something about the ring makes him more powerful. So, like a safety blanket, he keeps it close. Intuitive. Clever. Beautifully naive.

Jack's voice is gentle and dead when he asks, "If a friend wrongs you, in a way that cannot be reconciled, what would you do?"

Pitch considers for a moment, finding something hilarious about the whole thing. Morbid mirth. "I am not your most ideal candidate to ask. I am a creature of solitude." Jack is still under the impression that Pitch does not know precisely what went on in the cell. His vague hints and descriptions, meant to keep the secret hidden, only underscore the Nightmare King's victory.

Jack exhales, a broken and scattered sound, turning his eyes up towards the clouds. He swallows, willing away the tears that brim in his eyes. "The worst has been done," he says, as though he is reminding himself and has forgotten Pitch entirely. He closes his eyes and centers himself. "Nothing can hurt me now."

Pitch's ambers travel down the attractive slope of the frost fairy's back. "It is most unwise to challenge pain, Jack."

When Jack opens his eyes again, there is an electric blue glow to them. "Then let it take up arms against me."

Pitch has been preparing for this day for some time now. Pierre is growing weaker, just weak enough more appropriately, for Jack to at least leave an impression. It will not due to let Pierre be in control. Jack's anger will be too easily slaked by his profuse apologies. Pitch never suspects for Jack to exceed his expectations. But underestimating the wrath of the betrayed has always been a flaw of his.

* * *

"Jack," Pierre says, as though seeing him is a relief. The way his eyes trace his figure sends a chill over his skin. Something within him resonates with the cold. Pierre's cell is too warm for his liking. He can smell the man's sweat, his musk. The smells assault his senses. Jack is uncertain what to expect. He inhales, inclines his chin, and prepares himself to speak. Pierre beats him to the punch.

"Back for more?"

Jack's anger compounds exponentially, the frothing white hot rage turning glacial, bitter cold. Jack is not aware of the sudden temperature fluctuation in the room, but Pierre is. Any thought of mending the rift between them is gone. Forgiveness is impossible. Unthinkable. Jack knows precisely where to go from here. "Yes."

Pierre looks both pleased and pleasantly surprised. "What about the judge?"

"He cannot see us now. You're mine, recall?" Jack disbands the shackles fettering his wrists and ankles. He ignores the pang of pity when he sees the red welts on his skin. Pierre finds his feet. Jack does not bother to ask himself how the man can find the strength to do so. Lust is every man's Gatorade.

Jack starts to undress. Something stirs inside him, something wretched, skulking, and dark. It grows, takes form, and finds many footholds in his broken heart. The bruises have healed, for the most part. Jack's pale form, hale and unharnessed, calls to Pierre. The man crosses the stone floor. Jack, stripped down to nothing but the ring, waits for him. "Have you realized?" Pierre asks. "Have you finally come to your senses? You would never choose Pitch over me."

Jack smiles up at him – plastic, yet alluring. "I have." He can feel the thing inside him coil up into a striking position when Pierre reaches around to lay a very deliberate hand on his back. The hand slides lower until it finds his ass. It squeezes hard enough to leave fingerprints. It pulls Jack in, against the weapon upon which he was broken. Pierre meets his lips. Jack closes his eyes. He not only draws on the anger at Pierre, but also channels the anger he harbors at Adam.

He succumbs to the kiss, giving Pierre precisely the nasty, desperate sort of embrace he craves. The dreams crash into him. He is bombarded with flashbacks. Pierre's other hand rakes down his leg and finds the catch of his knee. He hikes Jack's leg up to his thigh. Two swift strides has Jack pinned between the man's body and the wall. He moves his lips to Jack's neck, sucking, biting, and tonguing the skin viciously. Jacks palms comb his chest and arms.

Pierre starts fumbling with the fastens of his pants. Jack opens his eyes, flooded with some unnatural light, staring vacantly at the ceiling. The rings begins to glow, the light spidering up into his veins, surging through him.

The skin under Jack's hand, the skin of Pierre's chest, starts to make a sizzling sound. A purplish blue handprint appears. Pierre recoils just enough to break from Jack's neck. Jack switches the momentum, spinning them to pin Pierre against the wall. Jack crashes his lips into Pierre's with bruising force. Jack leeches more hatred into his mouth. The same purplish blue color starts to seep into the man's skin, spreading from his lips into his cheeks. Burning. Cold burning.

Pierre's eyes are unnaturally wide as pain roars through him. His hands are nearly black by now, attacked every time they touch Jack's skin. Jack cups his hand and pushes it against the man's loins. Pierre screams, his cheeks splitting apart, tearing like paper.

* * *

"Is it everything you imagined?" Jack hisses in a tone of voice he is not accustomed to using. By now, Pieere's hands are all but gone, inoperative. He straddles Pierre, who is spotted with frost bite. His face is nearly unrecognizable, as is the rotten spear that dangles between his legs. Jack's hands rake over the man's abdomen, leaving vicious charred lines. Hollow and furious, Jack pays no heed to the strange abilities. Something drives him on – something irrational and primal. Primitive.

He is finally in control of his fate.

He is finally strong enough.

And Pierre is going to pay. He is going to pay for Adam too. In full.

He is consumed by his pain and delighted by the results. Jack's hand slides up and closes around Pierre's throat. The touch could be construed as sexual at first until he starts to squeeze. A smile keeps appearing on his face, malicious and satisfied by the way the man whimpers and writhes, vying for control and fighting for his life. The frostbite spreads beneath the skin, effectively collapsing his airway. Pierre's body seizes. Jack trembles.

"Do you like that?" Jack hisses through a deranged grin. "Cum. Cum for me. You're so close. You're so close, aren't you?" Pierre can only respond with a gurgling, choking noise.

Jack is oblivious to the tears streaming down his cheeks. He releases his neck when Pierre stops struggling. "Still stiff," Jack chokes out, the gravity of the situation and subsequent pain striking him like an oncoming train. The glow leaves his eyes, retreating into the ring. "You're just never satisfied, are you!" he screams. "Because it wasn't enough that I loved you like a father! It wasn't enough that I lost Adam too!"

Jack presses his wrist against the bridge of his nose and hangs his head, falling apart at the seams. He starts to weep unreservedly. Something nudges his shoulder. Jack sniffs and turns his head. A great black horse stands beside him, its eyes aglow with a mix of concern and curiosity. Jack watches her with watery eyes, too delirious with anguish and grief to question how she got inside. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

She extends her neck and nuzzles his cheek, effectively blotting away the tears that linger there. Without thinking, Jack turns his body and wraps his arms around her muzzle. Her cries against the flat of her face.

She stays with him, not only because it is Pitch's will, but also because the corpse on the floor means a feast.

* * *

Pitch, of course, saw the whole thing. He relinquished his hold, his influence, on Pierre with the first bite of frost. His mind reels, half unable to process the magnificence he just witnessed firsthand.

"Mine immaculate dream made of breath and skin… How I've waited for you," he whispers.


	12. Knowing

The ending quote of the last chapter comes from "Come Undone" by My Darkest Days. Amazing cover. Amazing voice. Love love love.

* * *

Jack dresses while the ravenous mare devours the charred corpse, lying rigid on the floor. He considers it a courtesy more than anything. With the evidence gone, it is as though it never happened. Unfortunately, threads of innocence are harder to find now. Jack studies his hand and the mysterious ring crowning his finger, turning his palm over. He admires and fears it. He loves and despises it. Whatever power it provides is both a comforting and hazardous. Jack, besotted with victory, is too stunned, too delirious with murder to come to terms with what he has done. He waits for the satisfaction vengeance promises – the alleviation of the pain and the repair of his person. It never comes.

Why?

Where is it?

His fascination and the wild rush in his veins give way to grief.

Jack, in a stifling fog, finds his way out of Pitch's lair, using mirrors, moving walls, and reshaping shadows. Sliding. Growls. Whispers of fabric and phantom breath. The doors yawn open before him, groaning in protest. He can see the courtyard and the fields beyond the private garden, barred by the secondary gate. With a sudden rush of need, he hurries to the gate and throws it open.

Not warm. Not cold. Numb. Stale. Still.

He finds no comfort in the bleak wilderness beyond – a ghostly, morbid black and grey world. Ash is falling from the sky, peppering the ground in grey. It does not take long for Jack's hair to assume the same hue and his skin to smudge. Battling tears, he picks his way over a path rarely used, overgrown with tangled black vines, heavily thorned and especially menacing. He passes statues and stones, but pays their significance little mind. Jack does not realize where his feet are taking him until he sees the dividing line up ahead.

He is suffocating.

Not physically. There is plenty of air in his lungs. But the world is caving in about him. He has a mind to step out of the ash and into the snow, seeking it like an antidote. It lays in wait before him, pure and unpolluted. Clean. Beautiful. Jack reaches out in hopes of catching a few white flurries in his hand.

_Thud._

"No…"

He can't.

He can't because before him is a barrier he cannot see: a barrier surrounding the Nightmare King's fortress. There is a barrier between the world of ash and the real snow beyond. He can feel it. He can even see faint ripples in the air, blossoming out from where his hand touches the force field. He also sees a flash, sees his world rotate and thrown into sharp focus, as though he is standing on the outside looking in. It's a cage.

And from the other side, there is nothingness. From the other side, the ominous castle does not exist.

Jack removes his hand and staggers backwards. He doesn't understand. Hoping it is just an illusion, he turns his hand over and looks at his palm. Bile rises in the back of his throat. Grey. Black. Smudged.

Jack goes to wipe the filth away. The motion becomes more furious when it will not come off.

It is as if he is being inverted – turned inside out. As he stares at his flesh, he sees the staining of his own soul, marred by some unnatural lust and the dastardly deed. Jack shakes his head. "I had to. I had to," he whispers, his eyes wide as they search for justification. "He made me. I had to!" And now, the only clean pieces of his face are the tear streaks.

His knees buckle. He sinks to the ground, cushioned with ash. He is trapped here, whether by this barrier or his own guilt. Jack tries to recall the reason he came. That reason, of course, was Pitch. Pitch: the only creature to ever entice him so. The dark, seductive romance was the perfect lure. And Jack still craves it. But Pitch has yet to take any interest in him other than fleeting glances and sporadic visits.

Does he… know?

Jack covers his ears and shakes his head.

Does Pitch Black know that his virtue is gone? Does he know about Jack's indiscretions? Does he regret bringing him here? Will he leave as a result… or toss him out like rubbish? Jack cannot bear the thought. He'll go mad. He'll go mad!

Jack yanks the ring off his finger, preparing to chuck it as far from him as possible.

Something snorts. Jack turns enough to see the mare, her hooves planted on the clouded path behind him. Jack shakes his head. "Go away," he whispers, resuming his original position. But the plea has no conviction behind it – no anger or resentment. Just pain. Obviously none of this is her fault no matter how much Jack pines for something to blame aside from himself.

He hears the dull thudding of her hooves on the path, but the sounds are growing closer. Slow. Cautious. Painstakingly cautious.

When she is close enough, she extends her neck and noses along his shoulder, prodding him gently. She flicks her tail and tosses her head, nickering at him. Jack, teary eyed, glances at her. She starts stamping her hooves and pawing at the ground. Ash flutters up around her hooves. She nickers again.

_She doesn't like it here,_ Jack realizes. Jack's eyes track from the mare to the barrier and what lies beyond. The mare whinnies, practically prancing in place. Jack finds his feet and tucks the ring into his pocket. Whatever it is, it is a gift. He can defend himself now. He's not helpless. Not anymore.

The mare snorts in approval, coming abreast him so he can put his hand on her shoulder for support. Jack manages something like a smile. He wants to throw his arms around her neck and disintegrate. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs. He wants too much.

He has always wanted too much.

Together, they walk back towards the manor.

* * *

Pitch stands at one of the empty windows, slender and soaring with a pointed tip and elegant frame. Simple. Stark. Sharp. Not unlike himself.

He watches the figures returning to his dwelling, namely Jack. The sight fills him with a joy most terrible.

Because no, Pitch does not want to change Jack. He wants Jack to change himself. Such is the only acceptable course of action where lovers are concerned… and they will be lovers. And Pitch will be blameless for it. Jack will succumb to him completely and of his own accord.

Jack will be the sweetest lover, given time to ripen and time for the bruising to heal. Jack, unknowingly, opens his mind, his most intimate thoughts to Pitch, with every delicious dark act he commits. And Pitch knows that Jack is so close, so tantalizingly close, to coming to him. It's perfect.

Because Pitch would never stoop to _ask_. He cannot take either. Such would destroy the animal, the white tigress, inside of Frost. Seductive and sinful and succulent.

No. Jack will come to him. Placate him. Soothe him. Satisfy him. And soon.

There are shreds of beauty in his world, but Jack must learn to appreciate them in order to see them.

_You mustn't fear me,_ Pitch whispers at the edge of Jack's trauma-burned mind, lingering, caressing. Each crack he touches disappears, filled in like melding mortar.

* * *

Jack stops in mid-step. The mare glances back at him with her ears perked attentively. His vision clears. His fear subsides. His doubt wanes. He is not alone. Something is watching over him, something dark, but… somehow benevolent. Something that seems to cherish him, need him, care for him.

Jack's eyes pan the dead expanse – a grey world dusted in ash. He watches the flurries float down, like feathers.

_No. Not dead._

Jack kneels down beside a tangle of thorns. Something is swelling on one of the stems. Black roses begin to bud and bloom over the vine. He reaches out and ghosts his fingerpad across a petal – soft as silk.

The mare, bristling with curiosity, steps gingerly around him to taste one. She plucks a bloom from the branch and munches, considering carefully. When she snorts and recoils from the fragrance and flavor it leaves on her tongue, Jack is surprised by his own laughter.

* * *

The mare is too. She watches him with a mix of uncertainty and amusement, slightly repulsed he would take such pleasure in her misfortune. But then again, he _is _Pitch's mate.

Why The Master chose such a pale creature with all that fluffy white hair is beyond her. He has a kindness in his Caribbean blues that unsettles her stomach: feminine gentility and boyish charm. But she likes his smirk. He reminds her of a foal – needy and mischievous, but full of potential. He will learn all the appropriate way to behave in time. And like any foal, he needs to be told where to go and what to do.

She suspects that has been the case for the majority of his life.

Flighty, fervent little thing…

She nudges him up the path, impatient to be rid of her charge and drive him back into Pitch's arms so she can return to her own mate in another realm. Water-horses make quite the partner. Jack's scent is changing. Strange that she cannot smell the Master on him… nowhere near as thickly as she could smell it on him when they first met.

Pitch should fix that.

Some other shadowspawn may mistake him for prey, or a potential mate themselves. _Two legs_… Always waiting until the right time instead of staking claims and acting on primal urges. Silly silly silly.

* * *

Jack chuckles a bit as she butts him up the path and back through the gate. He raises his eyes to see Pitch standing in the doorway. The arresting sight floods his face with heat and he averts his eyes. The mare will not be deterred by his shame, or bashful tendencies, and prods him into the courtyard. When Jack crosses the threshold, she pivots on her hooves and dashes away, vanishing into the ash with a shrill, jubilant whinny.

Pitch steps aside, his back abreast the open door, and gestures into the keep with an open hand. And somehow Jack knows the invitation means more than the norm. It's not just _for now_. It's forever. The idea occurs to him then… that perhaps it is time to offer Pitch extra incentive. Gratitude. Praise for keeping him.

They pass dinner that evening in silence that transcends Jack's definition. Jack cannot meet his eyes, knowing how badly his cheeks burn. Appetite for food alludes him, but fantasies abound, whetting an appetite for something else. Jack can feel strange caresses to his mind, coaxing more explicit scenes to the surface.

* * *

Jack stands before a mirror, clad only in the long sleeved bottoned nightshirt he discovered in the closet. It is long enough to cover what it needs to. He also must be mindful of losing his hands in the fabric. Lastly he removes the ring, laying it on the bureau.

With nothing but the moonlight to guide him, Jack's feet take him down the corridor… to the soaring doors of Pitch's room. His heart is hammering. His hands are clammy. Should the man refuse him, for whatever reason, Jack has little concept of what he would do. It would squash what little confidence he had left. He closes his eyes, musters his courage, and pushes the door open. It yawns inward silently. Jack steps inside. Pitch is not abed. Rather, the man sits at the cushioned window sill with a book in hand. He lifts his eyes, fixing Jack to the floor with his glowing ambers.

The strength all but leaves Jack's legs. Willing his knees not to start knocking, he tries his best to maintain eye contact. A silent message passes between them. Before Jack is fully conscious of his own actions, he is unbuttoning his shirt. Slowly. One at a time. No matter how fast his blood races or his heart flutters, he cannot bring himself to go faster. When the last button is thumbed open, he pulls the fabric apart and lets it slide down his shoulders and his arms to pool on the floor at his heels. He shifts slightly, body conforming into something of a modest stance, though his actions rob him of that virtue.

They gaze at one another. Jack cannot read Pitch's stare. He swallows.

Pitch rises. He closes the book and leaves it on the sill. The man is dressed in sleep pants and a short, open robe in matching black, both boasting a liquid-like sheen. Pitch approaches. Jack is terrified. What appears to be beeline diverges. The man moves behind him with all the grace of a jungle cat – an apex predator – a shadow. He circles him once, surveying and scrutinizing every nude inch.

Judgment Day.

Pitch strolls behind him once again. But this time, he stops. Jack feels a cool knuckle between his shoulder blades. The folded digit trails downward, following the path of his spine and the trench of his back. Jack shivers. There are lips on his shoulder. They hover over the crook of his neck. They kiss him again. Jack's eyes fall closed. There is a hand on his hip. That hand moves to his abdomen. It pulls. There is no space between Jack's posterior and the body behind him.

"Are you afraid?" Pitch asks against the shell of his ear.

A series of flashbacks blaze through Jack's memory, burning him with their blunt reminders and ugly reflections. At the end of it all, Pitch is there, near the end of some tunnel, holding him. His heart calms. His pulse levels out. Jack opens his eyes. A tear drop escapes from a corner.

"No," he breathes, his vacant eyes fixated ahead, on the stark colored bed.

The other male pauses before he says, "It is alright to fear, Jack. I know."

The weight of those words crushes him. Jack's lips part, his expression plummeting, brows on the incline. He could die. In this moment, he could die. "What?" he whispers.

"This is my keep. I see all. I know all." Against Jack's ear, "You are no less beautiful, no less desirable. What is done makes no difference." The hand snakes around his torso as Pitch wraps Jack up in his arms. "I have waited… wanted you to come to me. You needed time. It had to be your choice."

Jack's hands clutch the man's arm, bunching up the sleeve of his robe. "I thought… I thought you had lost interest," he croaks.

"My interest in you is an obsession that will never diminish. You are a dream incarnate. An immaculate dream." Jack emits a soft, pain filled sob. Had Pitch not been holding him, Jack would have crumbled to the floor. The man takes the weight easily. "You have exacted your vengeance. You have corrected the imbalance. You have dealt justice for yourself… _masterfully_. There is nothing else to be done. It is over, my pet. It is over," Pitch says against his ear. Jack's fingers burrow into his arm, clinging to him. Pitch holds Jack until strength returns to the boy's legs. He stands, cheeks freshly stained with tears. There are lips on his neck again.

Pitch leaves him. Jack feels bereft of something invaluable.

The Nightmare King strides to his bed. He angles towards Jack. He extends his hand. "Now… you will come to me."


	13. True Face

A cloud passes in front of the moon. Jack sits up from the headboard, mere breaths away from the monster who has a knee between his legs. He trembles. Pitch's thumbs smooth away any lingering tears. Jack's eyes stray to his lips. He extends his hand, timidly searching for Pitch's chest. His fingertips find it. He hesitates. Pitch brings one hand up, covering Jack's hand, firmly sandwiching it against his bare skin. Jack can feel his heartbeat.

Pitch's gaze tracks over his face before they finally meet eyes. Jack finds serenity in his golden hues, not unlike watching a sunset. They stare. Their foreheads touch. Their noses brush together. Jack trembles. Pitch dusts his lips over Jack's in such a way that leaves Jack wanting more. The action is gentle. And dark. And full of promise.

Pitch appears human enough now – just as he did the first time he met him – but Jack knows that is less than the case.

Frost swiftly kisses him, shutting his eyes tightly. The action is met receptively, but there is no hurry behind it. Pitch reminds Jack with firm pushes of his lips that they have all the time in the world. Pitch's lips, in spite of their unnatural chill, burn. Jack starts to relax.

Jack feels Pitch shift, slipping a knee under his thigh and bringing the other over to do the same. He lays his hand on the small of his back, pulling him close. Jack reaches around him, pulling, prying, and dragging the robe off his shoulders. Things are flowering into something hot and heavy. Pitch sits back and pulls Jack up onto his hips. The unforgiving grip on the small of his back allows for nothing but contact between their torsos.

Jack surrenders to the tongue between his lips. He loops his arms around the man's neck, fingertips digging into the flesh of his back.

* * *

Jack's hips move on their own, commencing a fluid rolling motion against the Shadowmancer, grinding their loins together. Pitch could purr from the satisfaction something as simple as that brings. Their lips come apart, but their eyes are fused together – stares locked and intense. Pitch's hand travels up Jack's back. The other is dragged down his hip and thigh. Jack gently threads strands of the Nightmare King's silky sable locks through his fingers.

He regards Jack in silence that smacks of desire. Jack is almost fawn-like in the way he moves. It is graceful, but cautious, as though he could dart away at any moment. Pitch knows he holds perfection in his arms. He is determined not to spoil it. He has no qualms about thoroughly enjoying Jack's body though. Apparently, Jack has the same idea.

Jack's hand moves between them, floating down to the waistband of the pants that still cover his legs. Jack's cheeks flush a delightful shade of cherry, filling Pitch with a terrible need to thoroughly _fuck_ every ounce of innocence out of him. Giving Jack time for second thoughts is a bad idea. Should he change his mind now, Pitch is not certain he could restrain himself. Pitch takes Jack's hand and guides it down, pushing his palm against the bulge under the black.

Jack's eyes widen, practically blanching. Pitch just grins – a depraved, savage, broad smile – against the ash blonde's quivering lips. "Surely you didn't think I was compensating for something," he hisses, "holed up here in my own little pocket of the planet in a soaring tower of terror with naught but a dastardly reputation and a flashy car… did you?"

Jack stammers and gulps behind the tight line of his lips.

"Ah. You did." Pitch responds with a throaty chuckle. He takes Jack by the chin and teethes over his lower lip. "I have a mind to make you eat those assumptions." And Pitch can see the wheels turning behind Jack's eyes, chewing on the comment. Pitch sees the moment that the boy understands. Jack tries to suppress the smile that follows, flushing.

But the fairy is not yet comfortable enough with Pitch to banter back...

And that is precisely why none of this is _actually_ happening.

* * *

Jack, who has taken to sleeping in the nude, is in his own room. A moan rips through his throat. He knots his hands in his sheets and pillowcase. His gapping lips form a crooked grin, his breaths coming in airy, audible gasps. He bends his knee. He tightens his abdominals. He turns his head. He writhes beneath a phantom body, his legs open and his cheeks flushed while Pitch (based elsewhere in the fortress) plays puppet master with his erotic dreams.

Jack bites his lip to suppress the vulgar symphony brewing in his chest. His back bridges. His mouth falls open. Pitch couldn't be more pleased when the blond starts verbally worshiping, encouraging, and pleading with him in yeses and ohs and lilting moans. When the crescendo comes, Jack's ragged voice manages a shade of masculinity. He says his name – loudly.

Jack sits up, his hand clamping over his mouth with a smarting slap. His own voice woke him. His eyes dart about the night-bathed room. He is… alone. Of course he is…

Jack does not bother to hide his crestfallen expression.

"Just a dream," he whispers. But that didn't stop him from dampening the sheets with sweat and cum. He huffs. Jack's body is alive – his nerves wired and buzzing. Battling an immense amount of frustration, Jack shrubs his face with his hands. There is no thought of Pierre. No thought of Adam. There is only Jack's carnal body and its enormous desire for savage pleasure from a savage part of himself. It is powerful enough to change him. It is wild enough to make him start acting irrationally. It is worse than that first night: the night he tried to bed Adam to slake his own lust. His skin is hot to the touch and his breath is no cooler.

Hell, it's bad enough to… to…

"Fuck this," he practically growls, yanking the sheet off and striding out of the room.

* * *

Pitch, lounging abed, glances up from a rolled parchment when Jack bursts in, throwing the door open hard enough for the knob to dent the wall. He watches, expressionlessly, as the boy crosses the room, frames his jaw with his hands, and kisses him full on the mouth.

It could be dejavu, but inverted, altered, and sweetened.

_This_ is the Jack Pitch wants.

The parchment is discarded and Jack is yanked into bed for what will be a sound fucking.

Jack's hands comb and lodge into his hair. Pitch rolls over him, planting his palm on the mattress – a flesh and bone bar in the cage of linens. Pitch grasps the flesh of Jack's ass, causing him to break from the kiss to moan aloud. His hands wonder.

"Stop," Jack declares suddenly. They kiss again. When Pitch does not, "Stop." Pitch meets his eyes. Their chests heave. "Not like this."

Pitch's brows knit together, battling offence. Had he misread the signals? Was Jack's damned stamina seriously outmatching his own?!

"Your real face," Jack clarifies, dusting his thumb over Pitch's cheekbone as his cheeks pink. At first, Pitch does not know what to make of this. It blindsides him. It stuns him. It immensely pleases him. The devilish lust in Jack's eyes does not lie.

"You _are_ a randy little minx aren't you?" he mutters. Pitch drops the human disguise, his skin gradually losing its color. His eyes glow. Claws bite into Jack's ass where fingers used to be.

Jack smirks. "That's more like it," he agrees through a wily grin just before their lips clash again.

* * *

There is ghoulish light shining in through the slender space between the thick curtains when Jack opens his eyes. His dazed attention tracks to the dead hearth and the bare bureau, discombobulated and groggy. But when he sees the mirror, he is instantly seized by a graphic image of Pitch drilling into him from behind, holding his legs at an obscene angle. More explicit scenes are resurfacing.

Jack, somewhat reluctantly, turns his head enough to see if the shadow lord is laying beside him. The bed is empty. Jack sits up, ignoring the protests of his back. His turns and plants his feet find the floor. He stands.

Pain /roars/ through him - so intense that his knees buckle.

A pair of hands catch him on the way down, jutting out from a shadow that coalesces from the wall. Jack's muscles quiver as he grits his teeth, burrowing into the familiar scent of Pitch's nightshirt and relying entirely on his support.

"Not yet," Pitch advises velvetly. Jack's eyes snap open when he feels liquid heat leak out of him and snake down his leg. He flushes hotly, recalling losing count of the number of times Pitch seeded him, both between his thighs and his lips. Jack fists the fabric of Pitch's clothing, mortified by his own shame. His behavior was... well... He acted like a bonafied slut. What must his god think of him now?

Black helps him back into bed. Jack is having a devil of a time shepherding together the strength to meet his eyes, even when Pitch takes his chin. Pitch releases him and turns to leave. Jack seizes his sleeve. He holds on as hard as he can.

Pitch eases into bed beside him, their bodies facing one another. Their fingers thread together. Pitch kisses Jack's knuckles. Jack struggles to ask the question that haunts him. It sounds crude, and he knows he should have more confidence than to inquire. Pitch can sense the doubts and dread weighing on him. Normally, those would be delicious.

But not on _his_ Jack.

Pitch shifts closer, bringing the teen's hands to his chest. Against Jack's lips, "It lasted well into the morning. Even after all those glorious hours, I could never have my fill of you. But I have never been more satisfied either. The warmth of your body beckons to me even now."

Jack swallows, adjusting one leg slowly. He lacks the energy to curse, even under his breath. "Is it supposed to hurt this much?"

Black adopts a foul, sadistic smile. "Only if one does it _right_." And he punctuates the reply with a venomous snap of the tongue.

Jack chuckles indulgently. Pitch caresses his cheek, thumbing his way down to his lips, tracing them like flower petals.

"Why me?" he whispers, finally meeting eyes with the dark marvel.

Pitch smirks – the expression seething with lazy arrogance. He rests his hand on Jack's cheek and lets his thumb stray across his sex-swollen lips. "Isn't it obvious, Jack? Without your love, my life is nothing... but a carnival of rust."

* * *

**AN: No. The fic is not finished. I have grand master plans for this most twisted tale, plans you all will greatly despise me for. Bwahaha! And I'll be sure to let Jack have lots of little flashbacks to give you tantalizing morsels of their... coupling. I decided to update with a shorter doc just to prove I'm still alive. tada! An update for both this and Breath of Life is coming. BELIEVE IT.**


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